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Out from under Caesar’S Frown; 


OR, 


The Belle of the Dismal. 



BY REV. J. W. DANIEL, A.M 


• 5 


WITH AN INTRODUCTION 


BY REV. A. COKE SMITH, D.D. 


AUG 8 1891 


Printed for the Author. 

Publishing House of the Methodist Episcopal Church, South. 
Barbee & Smith, Agents, Nashville, Tenn. 

1891. 



I 


Entei'ed, according to Act of Congress, in the j-ear 1891, 
By J. W. Daniel, 

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 



7 ■ 


DEDICATION. 


On Thursda)- morning, December 26, 1889, the death angel 
entered my home for the first time, and carried to heaven the 
spirit of our darling little Lillian, aged one year, two months, and 
twelve days— a bright, beautiful child that attracted the attention 
of every one who came in contact with her. We buried her in 
Oak Kidge Cemetery, at Bennettsville, S. C. There her little 
body shall rest until the “ resurrection of the just.” As the author 
penned the chapters composing this volume, Lillian was fre- 
quently at his chair, and he seemed to hear her sweet little 
prattling tongue as in by-gone days. There is no death: the 
veil secludes the spirits of our loved ones, but there is no separa- 
tion. Hot, scalding tears have fallen while these pages were 
written; only to be driven away, however, by the precious 
promises of God’s word. The humble author has aimed to 
teach by these parabolic lessons the truth as it is in Jesus, and 
now he brings the bouquet gathered from lofty clifi*,* secluded 
vale, and broad plain, poorly arranged as these blooms of nature 
may be, and lays it reverently on Lillian’s grave. 

Reader, if the lessons of this volume find a responsive chord 
in your bosom, and if it is ever your lot to stand by the little 
mound in Oak Ridge Cemetery, drop a flower there for our 
sakes. The Author. 

( 5 ) 


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INTRODUCTION. 


“The dark places of the earth are full of the habitations of 
cruelty.” This is true of physical darkness. Light is the best 
police regulation. The municipal authorities flood the dives 
and low places with the blaze of the electric light, and evils 
abate; opportunity is given for philanthropic work, and mental 
and moral elevation follow. This physical fact illustrates a truth 
in the higher realms: Ignorance is the fecund mother of a thou- 
sand evils more cruel than |)hysical pains and tortures. The Son 
of man comes as the light of the world. The presence of his 
word and spirit dispels the darkness, and those who are evil 
must change their nature or flee away. Where ignorance is evils 
multiply. He who brings knowledge brings light, and light is 
life. 

It is possible to be intellectually wrong and morally right, but 
the relation between mental and moral rectitude is closer than 
is often supposed. One may hold the truth in unrighteousness, 
but hardly hold righteousness in untruth. One can be saved with 
but little knowledge. To know one’s self as a sinner and Christ 
as a Saviour is the only knowledge necessary to entrance into the 
Kingdom of God. But ignorance is a bar to faith as well as to 
progress. Light is needed. To spread the light is the duty of 
all Christians and philanthropists. As darkness breeds sin, sin 
in turn breeds deeper darkness. 

Avarice will hoard, for mere love of holding, the means which 
would bring light, joy, and gladness to many a mind and heart. 
Such minds, left without light, fall an easy prey to appetite and 
lust, “and lust when it hath conceived bringeth forth death.” 
Cruelty to the bodies of men calls for legal interference, but 
cruelty of a deeper and darker kind is practiced upon the im- 
mortal natures of our^ fellows, of our neighbors, and we enter no 
protest or at best lift up but a feeble voice. Is it not time there 
was an awakening to duty in this matter? Shall ministers of 
the word and teachers of the truth long for the flesh-pots of 

( 7 ) 


8 


Introduction, 


Egypt when they can in the wilderness places witness displays 
of the divine presence and power, while with the rod of truth 
they call forth from the rocks the waters with which to slake 
the thirst of the famishing multitudes? 

The times call for the spirit of heroism, and opportunities for 
its exercise are not wanting in our own land. Multitudes among 
us are dwelling under the “ shadow of Caesar,” and under his rule 
are crucifying in themselves and in their locality all that is good 
and pure and true. Who will help such “ out from under Caesar’s 
frown? ” A. C. S. 


CONTENTS, 


Chapter I. Page 

Caesar^s Head and The Dismal 13 

Chapter II. 

The Home of Micajah Grant 23 

Chapter HI. 

The Ornithologist and Herbalist 32 

Chapter IV. 

The Recluse 41 

Chapter V. 

Dick Ivey on Cupid’s Territory 50 

Chapter VI. 

The Warning 58 

Chapter VII. 

Dick Ivey’s Incipient Courtship 65 

Chapter VIH. 

Flying Arrows from Cupid’s Bow 76 

Chapter IX. 

Micajah Grant’s Misfortune 85 

Chapter X. 

Dick Ivey Consults the Fortune-teller 90 

Chapter XI. 

Twice Warned 97 

Chapter XII. 

In the Toils of the Murder Demon 107 


( 9 ) 


10 Contents. , - 

Chapter XIII. Page 

Dick Ivey’s Self-imposed Doom . 112 

Chapter XIV. 

A Look into the Deserter’s Cave 119 

Chapter XV. 

The Apparition 124 

Chapter XVI. 

The Apparition (Continued) 134 

Chapter XVII. 

The Momentous Conference 147 

Chapter XVIII. 

Two Artificial Quakers 157 

Chapter XIX. 

Catastrophes and Cataclysms 1G6 

Chapter XX. 

The Man of Peace Looks upon War 172 

Chapter XXI. 

Edward English Rescued 179 

Chapter XXII. 

The Parting Interview 187 

Chapter XXIII. 

The Scenes Shift 198 

Chapter XXIV. 

Shipwreck 207 

Chapter XXV. 

Pandemonium 214 

Chapter XXVI. 

Pandemonium and Fire 222 

Chapter XXVII. 

Homeless 229 


Contents. 11 

Chapter XXVIII. Page 

A Dude of the Slashes ... 240 

Chapter XXIX. 

Lost for Centuries, but Found at Last 251 

Chapter XXX. 

Nether Circles 256 

Chapter XXXI. 

Swamped, Yet Afloat 262 

Chapter XXXII. 

Lost Treasures Restored 277 





OUT FROM UNDER GiE8SR’8 FROWN. 


CHAPTEK I 

CiESAR’s Head and The Dismal. 

BOUT thirty miles north-west of the city of 



n Greenville, S. C., there may be seen a somewhat 
famed — locally at least — spur of the great Blue Bidge 
Mountains, familiarly known as “Caesar’s Head.” 
Around the rugged sides of this atlas-shaped pillar of 
granite coils a well-graded stage road, and upon its 
bald cranium there has been erected a magnificent 
hotel, a very popular summer resort with the chival- 
rous sons and fair daughters of the old Palmetto 


State. 


There is a beautiful legend connected with the dis- 
covery and christening of this statuesque mountain, 
which vindicates the classic title of this book, if in 
the estimation of the reader it should require such 
defense. 

When the greatest of Boman generals, J ulius Cae- 
sar, was assassinated by Brutus and his coadjutants, 
it is said that the gods were displeased, and that they 
therefore erected, in a distant and undiscovered 
land, a superb monument, to commemorate forever 
the name of that illustrious chieftain. This wonder- 
ful piece of mythological statuary was placed in a for- 
eign land as a curse upon the Bomans, who had so 
ignominiously put to death Borne’s best friend and 


C13) 


14 Out from under Ccesar's Frown. 

the pre-eminent favorite of the gods among all the 
teeming millions of the habitable globe. 

The instigator of so great a crime was also ad- 
judged by the gods as meriting the extremest humil- 
iation and punishment after death. Therefore a ghost 
appeared to Brutus, we are informed, on the night 
prior to the disastrous battle of Philippi, as he sat in 
his tent planning his military operations for the next 
day. The unwelcome visitor from the unseen land of 
spirits informed the old senator on that occasion of 
the penalty which the gods had determined to impose 
on him who had dyed his hands in Caesar’s blood. 
After his violent and untimely death, and the humil- 
iation and defeat that would take place on the follow- 
ing day, his spirit was doomed to go to that distant 
land and guard the monument which the gods had 
reared to perpetuate the memory of the murdered 
emperor. 

The term of this mortifying service, however, was 
not eternal in its duration; but the punishment for 
his nefarious and ungrateful crime was to continue 
till that monument should be discovered in after gen- 
erations, and then the spirit of Brutus should be 
freed from its long vigils over this lonely mausoleum 
built by the gods to perpetuate the virtues of him 
who had served them so faithfully. 

Century after century rolled into the ever-receding 
past, and at last a Spanish nobleman, descended from 
ancient Koman stock, Don Fernandez Cordoza by 
name, together with his escort of hardy and adventur- 
ous countrymen, landed upon the then unexplored 
coast of South Carolina, and was captured — he and 
his companions — by a noted chief (Orinoco, or Coiling 


Cwsar's Head and The Dismal. 


15 


Snake), who at that almost prehistoric period, so far 
as America is concerned, was the great leader of what 
was then the famous tribe of Cara, or Cheraw, 
Indians, which inhabited all that fertile and beautiful 
tract of country lying between the Great Pedee and 
Cape Fear Kiver. 

This whole party of Spanish navigators were sacri- 
ficed, one after another, day by day, as they were 
taken farther and farther into the interior by the 
chief and his warriors— except Don Fernandez Cor- 
doza, who was spared in order that his death might 
grace a somewhat more than ordinary occasion. 

When the chief and his party reached the territo- 
ry of the Catawbas, whence they had gone to meet 
that tribe in council, all due preparation was made 
for putting to death this last and most important pris- 
oner. Their wigwams dotted a beautiful and well- 
shaded savanna, on that “broad, purling river that 
heads in the great blue ridge of mountains,” as Adair 
afterward described it, “and empties itself into San- 
tee River, in Amelia Township,” now known by the 
name of the tribe that once inhabited that portion of 
the State — Catawba; but, as it was called in the In- 
dian tongue, Eswa Tavora. Here Don Fernandez 
witnessed the ceremonies incident to his execution, 
which was to take place on the following day. 

But Orinoco, or Coiling Snake, had a beautiful 
daughter — Winona, his first-born, as the name signi- 
fies. This beautiful princess had become greatly en- 
amored with the tall and handsome Spaniard. There- 
fore on the night prior to the day set for his execution 
Winona succeeded in liberating the prisoner from the 
wigwam in which he was incarcerated, and together 


16 


Out from under Cwsar^s Frotcn, 

they made good their escape, on a pair of King Ori- 
noco’s fleetest horses. They traveled a north-westerly 
couj-se, through the territory of the Cherokees, and 
toward the great blue chain of mountains in the dis- 
tance, which they determined to put between them 
and their pursuers. In this they succeeded, and 
spent, says tradition, their lives happily in the re- 
gion beyond these great piles of earth and rock. 

But when they, while fleeing from Orinoco, reached 
the summit of a great, high mountain, the legend says 
that a spirit seized the bridle reins, and their panting 
steeds were instantly stopped. Thus the mountain 
was discovered not only by a scion of the old Homan 
stock, but also by a lineal descendant of Sextus, the 
son of Pompey, who after his father’s violent death 
in Egypt took up his residence in Spain. The spirit 
of Brutus was therefore released from its long vigils 
by the remote offspring, and that, too, removed by 
fifteen centuries, of one before whom the victim of 
his blood-stained hands (Julius Cmsar) had retreated 
from Dyrrhachium, but who, alas! reaped in turn the 
full measure of Caesar’s frowns on the bloody plains 
of Pharsalia, in that memorable battle of August 9, 
B.C. 48. 

The term of punishment decreed by the gods hav- 
ing been thus consummated, the ghost of Brutus was 
liberated and fled away to its final abode. And now 
immortal Caesar’s monument, as built by the hands 
of these Homan deities, stands out beneath the blue 
Southern sky to remind the tourist not only of his 
world-wide fame as a leader of the vultures and dogs 
of war, but to impress us with the fact that from the 
hands of our enemies God frequently evolves for us. 


CcBsar's Head and The DisinaL 17 

through successive generations, the greatest good; 
and that his government, as demonstrated in all o£ 
his works, is positively redemptive in all of its mul- 
tiplied features. 

Notwithstanding this interesting legend, however, 
we must insist that Caesar’s Head was thus named on 
account of a fancied resemblance between its lofty 
summit, which is shaped very much, like a profile of 
a human head and face, and the supposed facial ex- 
pression of the conquering old Roman whose name it 
bears. It would require, perhaps, a lively imagina- 
tion to trace any real likeness between our vague con- 
ception of the countenance of that grand old military 
hero and this piece of divine handiwork. But, while 
there may be no facial similitude between them, one is 
sure to fchink them alike in some respects, as he gazes 
upon the frowning mass of rock which forms the 
face, stern and warlike indeed, of this towering peak. 

When one stands at its base and looks upward, he 
is reminded by the granite nose, cheeks, and firmly 
set jaws that frown down upon him of the flinty feat- 
ures which one of so great decision as Caesar must 
have possessed. One is also impressed with the fact 
that they were contemporaneous, and that the name- 
sake, even, stood out officer-like in front of the blue 
column of soldier-like peaks, stretching in regular 
battle line away toward the east and west till lost in 
the distance, before — ay, centuries before — the old 
Roman was born; so that from nature’s bust of “the 
grandest Roman of them all” might have been read, 
prophetically, the military achievements of the in- 
vincible old chieftain a few thousand years before 
they came to pass. 

- 2 


.18 Out from under Coesar’s Frown, 

But Caesar, like all great characters, was a revolu- 
tionist. So, too, this silent sentinel of the ages has 
witnessed many disruptions and revolutions, and will 
doubtless see many more. Even within comparatively 
recent years the whole face of nature has been trans- 
figured within the scope of his vision. Bailroads have 
invaded the old monarch’s territory, and his granite 
pedestal almost trembles as the gigantic Front-exten- 
sion engine, with its long line of cars, rushes past him 
in the distance. Factories, with their thousands of re- 
volving spindles, hum in his ears a symphonious re- 
quiem to the ashes of the quietly slumbering long ago. 
A bustling, busy city, together with many smaller 
towns, abide almost under his shadow. In a word, the 
silent old sentinel could, were he blessed with Csesar’s 
mind as he is with the likeness of his cranial exterior, 
weave a more interesting web of sectional chronology 
and history than that which has come down to us 
from the pen of the illustrious old conqueror of an- 
tiquity. 

But, like the marshes along the river which Ezekiel 
saw trickling in its incipiency down the sides of the 
altar in that mysterious temple, and thence gathering 
force and volume as it penetrated the thirsty sands of 
the desert eastward, carrying life whithersoever it 
went, except to those “miry places” which the proph- 
et tells us “were given to salt;” so the ever widening 
stream of civilization and progress has not penetrated 
all the territory of this stern old advance guard of the 
great column of blue that stand motionless in the 
background, as if intently listening for the clarion 
voice of Caesar’s great namesake to call them on to 
battle. 


Ccesar^s Head and The Dismal. 19 

If we climb to the top of the granite forehead of 
this ancient warrior, and look toward the south-west, 
we will behold an apparently level plateau of land 
stretching away, mile upon mile, from the very base 
of the mountain. If we look downward, we will dis- 
cover that the side of the mountain is almost perpen- 
dicular, and that this apparently level tract of coun- 
try upon which our eyes have just feasted, and which 
stretches so innocently and lazily out beneath the clear 
blue sky, seems now to be actually eating away the 
very base of the mountain upon which we are stand- 
ing. As the observer looks upon the wild, tangled for- 
est springing up out of the gloomy abyss at his feet, 
and beholds the tree tops swaying back and forth 
under the influence of the stiff breeze; as his ear 
catches the sound of the sepulchral moan of the rest- 
less wind, he grows somewhat dizzy, and is impressed 
that the destroying monster is shaking his tangled 
mane, growling and crouching preparatory to the aw- 
ful attack. Then great Caesar’s proud form appears 
to be reeling over into the shadowy abyss, quivering 
in every part of his gigantic frame at the “unkindest 
cut” of this treacherous Brutus. He quickly retreats 
when these impressions seize upon him, for fear not 
of falling with Caesar 

At the base of Pompey’s statue, 

Which all the while ran blood ; 

but for fear of falling at .the base of nature’s frown- 
ing Caesar, a mangled, lifeless trunk. 

That tract of country of which we have just writ- 
ten seems to have been reserved from the encroach- , 
ments of man by the frowning monarch upon whose 
granite brow the observer stands, just to remind 


20 Out from under Ccesar’s Frown, 

him — as well as the observer — of the days that 
are forever past, when all nature stood out beneath 
his august form, dressed in her primitive garments. 
The observer is prone to think that way, at least, be- 
cause men are apt to cling tenaciously to what once 
was, just for the sake of by-gone associations, if for 
no other cause. 

That part of this gloomy forest adjacent to the 
base of the mountain is never visited by the sun’s 
rays for any length of time. The day king sometimes 
steals kisses through the parting crags, but in a mo- 
ment his beaming face is again curtained off by the 
overhanging rocks. The ever increasing and decreas- 
ing shadow of the mountain hovers over it as a vulture 
flutters over its prey. It is indeed too gloomy and too 
primitive in all of its aspects to tempt any one not 
accustomed to such scenes with a desire to enter it, 
even for the purpose of exploring its dark coves and 
secluded forests. Even the tourist in search of the 
awe-inspiring in nature inevitably avoids its abysmal 
shades. Locally this dark valley has been very ap- 
pi*opriately christened “The Dismal.” As lonesome 
and repulsive, however, as The Dismal appears from 
the bald head of Ceesar’s colossal form, it is inhabited. 
Truly it is a dark corner, bordering even upon the 
great stream of civilization and refinement, as it flows 
westward from the magnificent eastern temples of 
learning and progress. Indeed, it has been hitherto 
“given to salt,” an unprofitable marsh on the river’s 
bank; but perhaps the ever-swelling waters of this 
fertilizing and enriching Nile will one day overflow 
its banks, and thus purging the dark coves and valleys 
of The Dismal, that desolate and lonesome tract of 


Ccesar Head and The Dismal. 


21 


country, hedged in as it is by some of the most mag- 
nificent specimens of divine statuary, may yet become 
verdant witli the foliage of Christology, and its now 
forest-covered valleys and knolls may yet give place 
to flowery-kirtled plains and vine-crowned hills, 
breathing forth the sweet aroma of the “Kose of 
Sharon,” and rejoicing multitudes with the immortal 
fruit of the life-giving Vine. Who can tell? Caesar’s 
massive forehead may yet become a sounding-board 
for echoing the praises of redeeming love, and every 
bald crag may one day open their stony lips and, with 
hearts symphonized to heaven’s never-dying theme, 
shout, with the Messianic choir, “On earth peace, and 
good-will to men.” 

Even already corruscations of light have fiashed 
athw^art those dark and lowering shadows — an ear- 
nest, at least, that despotic Caesar cannot forever frown 
dowm all progress, even in the waste places of the 
earth. The school-teacher and the clergyman will fine 
day penetrate and clear away the shadow^s over this 
valley; break off, through God’s favor, Caesar’s domin- 
ion; and the volume of light thus reflected from this 
now dark vale will remove the frown from Caesar’s 
w^ar-clouded features; and one is also inclined to be- 
lieve that the old heathen monarch himself will yet 
be transfigured by the light thus introduced and 
thence reflected from a frowning despot to a minis- 
ter of righteousness. 

Redemption is the grandest work with which men 
are conversant, and it becomes sublimer as w^e con- 
sider its results. But its sublimity and grandeur are 
not without cost; it is a transcendentally expensive 
W'Ork, but never so costly as ignorance and mental in- 


22 


Oat from under Ccesar Frown, 

ertness. One who stands here upon oppressive Cse- 
sar’s bare crown, and looks yonder to the teeming city 
in the distance, with her millions of merchandise and 
stocks and bonds, almost impulsively cries out: “Truly 
she has broken away from Caesar’s clutchy arms, and 
defiantly smiles the triumphs of redemption.” 

The secession from such primitive darkness and in- 
ertness and that rebellion from the autocrat’s exact- 
ing demands, though they cost so much labor and 
pain and money, are ever justified in the eyes of the 
observer when he notes the results. But to get a 
clearer view of the stupendous cost of ignorance, let 
him turn and behold the shadows thrown by Caesar’s 
tall form across The Dismal. Let him look into the 
rude homes of that benighted cove; let him notice 
the effects, mentally and morally, of Caesar’s frov/n 
upon the inmates of those homes; let him consider 
the oppressive environments resulting from Caesar’s 
rule; and then, summing up all these negative and 
positive costs, what observer would not willingly turn 
from such a scene and gasp: “Redemption, redemp- 
tion from the thralldom of nature’s tyranny, at any 
cost! ” 

Such thoughts once filled the young heart of a res- 
ident of yonder secluded valley — Tom Grant — as he 
climbed, orphaned, homeless, and heavy-hearted, to 
the top of the granite-capped warrior, and looked 
away toward the South. 


CHAPTEE II. 

The Home op Micajah Grant. 

ICAJAH GEANT lived in the gloomiest part of 



1 \ The Dismal. It seemed that he courted Csesar’s 
presence, and that he loved dearly his frown; for the 
blighting shadow of the old monarch’s form never for 
a moment left his humble little cabin. 

The crude little building jutted up against the great 
granite rocks that composed the nethermost base of 
the overshadowing mountain. One beholding the lit- 
tle log house thus placed in the lap of the old despot, 
and marking how two great, clutchy granite arms 
came forth on either side, embracing the rude little 
hut, was thoroughly impressed that old Caesar loved 
Micajah Grant and all his possessions. And when 
the observer passed around the little building suffi- 
ciently to get a partial side view, and noticed how the 
cabin leaned toward the mountain, he was as strongly 
impressed that the frowning old despot’s love was re- 
ciprocated. May it not be a fact that love is some- 
times born of waning shadows?' Day after day, at 
certain hours, Micajah’s house was, because of the 
sun’s position in the heavens, in the penumbra of the 
mountain’s dark image, as it hovered like a funeral 
pall over the secluded valley. Perhaps he loved the 
site and surroundings of his house because the shad- 
ows sometimes decreased, thus giving temporary prom- 
ise, at least, of approaching sunshine. This strange 
iiiterblending of light and darkness at such times was 


( 23 ) 


24 


Out from under Ccesar's Froicn. 

really life-like; and its influence, though like the fas- 
cinating strains of a siren, may have been all the more 
enchanting on that account. Truly Osesar frowned 
angrily, but sometimes he gave promise at least of pa- 
ternal smiles. 

But there was another phase to the picture. When 
the observer looked upward, it seemed that the great 
perpendicular mass of rock, stretching upward for 
hundreds of feet, was actually heaving itself over into 
the densely wooded valley that lay silently andbreath- 
lessly awaiting the awful crash, and that in a few mo- 
ments every thing would be crushed beneath the pon- 
derous mass. This view changed the wdiole aspect, 
and impressed the beholder that Micajah’s home was 
in mortal dread of great Caesar’s threatening attitude. 
The picture thus presented was that of the suppliant 
looking beseechingly into the face of the angry op- 
pressor, and clinging to the hand that unmercifully 
plies the cruel rod. 

These three aspects of Micajah’s home give us a 
true picture not only of many homes, but of many 
individuals everywhere in our fair land. Almost ev- 
ery home, as well as many a man, has some “skeleton 
in the closet,” or some frowning despot in the form of 
fashion, prejudice, habit, or evil spirit of some kind, 
towering threateningly above them. They cling tena- 
ciously to that which threatens to destroy and crush 
forever, while the destroying angel lovingly embraces 
them. And yet who can tell how much past environ- 
ments, training, and ignorance had to do in determin- 
ing such states and conditions? 

Micajah loved his humble home in its rocky aerie, 
and under the frown of the mountain, because no 


25 


The Home of Micajah Grant, 

better one was afforded him by the dark corner in 
which he lived. His citizenship in The Dismal had 
been determined by his forefathers; and he, having 
accepted the situation as he found it, knew of no 
dearer spot. Around that log cabin clustered all the 
associations of the past, so far as he was concerned; 
and to him it was a sacred and dear spot, the focal 
point where all the lines of his interest intellectually, 
domestically, morally, and socially met. The barriers 
that shut him in also shut out from him all knowd- 
edge of a better country or a pleasanter home, and 
he was contented and happy to that degree, at least, 
which ignorance permits; for no ignorant man can 
ever experience genuine happiness in the true ethical 
sense of that term, for it is indissolubly connected 
with thought and knowledge. Therefore, how respon- 
sible a thing life is! for even the choice of that plot 
of ground upon which man rears his habitation and 
christens home may environ generations to come. 

Micajah Grant was a man of ordinary natural abil*- 
ity, but utterly without training so far as books were 
concerned — not even knowing the letters of the En- 
glish alphabet. His wife (Elvina Grant) was more 
fortunate at one time in her life, having gone for five 
months, in her girlhood days, to a school-teacher who 
had dared to invade the forests of Transylvania Coun- 
ty, North Carolina, of which she was a native. But, 
having taken upon herself the multiplied cares of the 
home, as she herself affirmed she soon found that 
“ lamin’ never fotch a pail of water from the spring 
nur made the soap pot bile.” Hence the faithful 
dame and sharer of Micajah’ s fortunes had long since 
laid by her erudite attainments, and had fallen to a 


26 


Out from under Ccesar^s Frown, 

level with her consort, so far as a knowledge of liter- 
ature was concerned. 

They were blessed with two children— Jerusha and 
Tom. The former was about seventeen and the latter 
about thirteen years of age at the time with which this 
bit of biography has to do. The children, however, 
had been more fortunate than the parents. Just prior 
to the beginning of the great civil struggle betw^een 
the States a school-teacher, capable of teaching after 
a fashion the art of reading and writing, had drifted 
into The Dismal, and Micajah’s children had in a few 
months rivaled, to the surprise of everybody, the 
teacher himself. 

The illiterate father and mother were proud of the 
attainments of their children. This they evidenced 
by their deportment. 

The teacher had brought with him some elementa- 
ry reading books, in which were some beautiful little 
stories. Jerusha and Tom had been fortunate enough 
to obtain one of these, to them, wonderful books. It, 
together with the great American standard in those 
days — Webster’s spelling book — composed the entire 
stock of literature in the home. But those two books 
were a treasure indeed to that isolated family. 

When Tom or Jerusha read to the old people, the 
scene inside of the humble cabin was directly oppo- 
site to that which was external, and which we have 
described at some length in the first part of this chap- 
ter. The reader always selected a seat near the door 
of the rude cabin, which was on the side opposite to 
the mountain, in order to get the benefit of as much 
light as possible. 

The wonderful feat began. Death-like stillness 


27 


The Home of Micajah Grant 

pei*vaded the little cabin, broken only by the reader’s 
monotonous voice. Elvina, taking the pipe from be- 
tween her teeth, and holding it between the thumb 
and first finger of her right hand, while the monoto- 
nous strokes of the old-fashioned churn-dasher, held 
in her left hand, were hushed for the time, leaned for- 
ward in utter amazement as her own offspring waded 
into the mysterious depths of that wonderful ele- 
mentary reader, or read the explanatory statements of 
the pictures in the latter part of W ebster’s spelling 
book. 

Micajah, who seemed to pride himself on being a 
lit tie hard of hearing,” pushed his ’coon-skin cap far 
back on his bullet-shaped head, raised both hands 
v/ide open to the rear of each ear; then bending for- 
ward till his elbows rested on his knees, thus de- 
meaned he sat with dilated eyes and parted lips, af- 
fording a perfect picture of intense attention. 

The reader always tilted the chair in which he or 
she sat against tlie door-post, letting the feet rest on 
the first round of the rude seat. Such were their 
several positions on these interesting occasions, and 
one looking upon the scene at such times, within the 
little cabin home, was impressed with its prophetical 
aspects. 

There was then a general leaning away from the 
clutchy embrace of great Caesar’s towering form. By 
the rays of light that came not from Caesar’s shadow, 
but flashing athwart the valley and reflexively gild- 
ing portions of his dark image with robes of splendor 
as it rested upon The Dismal, coming like the teacher 
from a region beyond, the reader traced the words of 
the wonderful book. Caesar’s frown seemed to grow 


28 Out from binder Ccesar Frown* 

deeper as these scintillations of light invaded his ter- 
ritory. They were indeed harbingers of better homes 
and happier scenes than The Dismal then afforded. 

But there was another event in the lives of Jernsha 
and Tom worth recording because of the influence 
which it exerted on the little home. A “singing 
master ” had crossed the State line from the woods of 
Transylvania County, and had organized a class in 
The Dismal. Thoroughly impressed with the impor- 
tance of his position and person, he took the liberty 
of dressing a little different from the common people. 
His pants were made of the inevitable blue jeans, 
and, in strict accord with highland style in North and 
South Carolina, they were about five inches too short, 
but amply proportioned otherwise. They were at- 
tached to a red calico sailor bodice by large white 
agate buttons. His appearance was, as a matter of 
course, very ridiculous; but the denizens of The Dis- 
mal simply thought that the peculiar suit of the “per- 
fesser” was one of the fasliions allowable for profes- 
sionable men of the far away and more civilized out- 
side world. His suit and calling, however, made him 
the center of attraction while he remained in The 
Dismal. He had good, strong lungs, and could read 
music in its simplest forms, but was somewhat de- 
fective in literary attainments. First, wdth a blast 
that made the great form of Caesar tremble, he sung 
the notes of the simplest pieces in “Old Harmony,” 
in which feat he was followed by the class. Then, 
after much throat-clearing on his part, and a general 
mopping of his perspiring face and hands with a great 
yellow cotton handkerchief, he woukt try the words. 
But in this undertaking he frequently broke complete- 


29 


The Home cf Micajah Grant 

ly down. He explained these failures, however, by 
declaring that his talent for music was so great that 
he “could sing much faster than he could read,” 
which was no doubt true. 

But Tom and Jerasha, having made some progress 
in the science of music under the tuition of the won- 
derful “perfesser,” always came to the rescue when 
the master ran. against a word puzzle; so that this 
musical genius was frequently heard to say that if he 
had the lamin' of Tom and Jerusha Grant, he would 
not be afeard to go into any community “fur to larn 
the folks ter sing.” Indeed, Jerusha and Tom got 
their instruction gratis, by learning the “perfesser ” 
how to pronounce the words in his favorite pieces; 
but this was a secret understanding between the con- 
tracting parties, for fear that it might injure the 
“perfesser’s” reputation were it generally known 
that he was being taught by two of his pupils. How- 
ever, Jerusha and Tom made rapid progress, and 
when the school closed it was universally admitted 
that these two pupils could sing the notes as well as 
the master. 

The peculiarly dressed “perfesser” made his way 
back to the deep forests of his Transylvania home, 
but he left behind him a spark that continueckto scin- 
tillate in the rude home of Micajah Grant. There 
was now a wonderful addition to the small stock of 
literary treatises that lay on the shelves of Micajah’s 
book-case (?) — “Old Harmony,” with its store* of 
sweet music and sublime poetry. Jerusha and Tom 
mastered the wonderful volume, and even Micajah be- 
came so familiar with the songs that he was able to 
call by name his “favor//^” jhece. 


30 


Out from binder Ccesar^s Froivn. 

Mica jail’s home became a lively place, the general 
meeting-place of the young people of The Dismal. 
The lusty songs there poured forth, from time to 
time, made the little cabin tremble from underpin- 
ning to rafter. Even stern old Csesar took up the re- 
frain and hurled it back, in echo, to the valley be- 
yond. Some light had indeed entered the valley, and 
home became sweeter, even if it did nestle in the lap 
of highly prejudiced old Csesar. His frowns from 
day to day were growing less severe, the result of the 
reflection from beneath. 

May we presume to believe that frowning prejudice 
of every kind will one day be compelled to yield up 
his territory, and that grander blessings await the 
home of Micajah Grant? Yes; Csesar’s frowns shall 
be driven from The Dismal, and instead of the dark 
shadows there shall come light. His granite lips 
shall fill the dark valley beneath him with the tri- 
umphant shout: “The kingdoms of this world are 
become the kingdoms of our Lord^ and of his Christ: 
and he shall reign forever and ever.” 

But progress is not always peaceful or uniform. “ I 
came not to send peace, but a sword.” The old Bo- 
man adage is even scripturally true: “There is no 
victory”^ without dust.” Stern, uncompromising re- 
sistance contests every inch of ground over which 
eagle-plumed truth would wave her unstained banner 
of ^eace. Just as these echoes of the progress that 
fills the regions beyond reach The Dismal, Csssar 
pricks his granite ears, dons martial airs, and sniffs 
the battle from afar. The dark days of ’61 deepen 
the shadows already over The Dismal. As the clari- 
on call “To arms!” reverberates from hill-top to hill- 


31 


The Home of Micajah Grant. 

top and from valley to valley, Mica j all Grant hears it; 
and, though hid away in The Dismal, he is too true a 
son of Caesar not to heed it. But alas! in the track 
of that blood-stained warrior’s frowns and prejudices 
there cannot but be suffering of the keenest type. On 
the field of battle Micajah Grant proves himself val- 
iant as a lion, but there are bleeding hearts yonder in 
the cabin which he calls home. A soldier’s wife and 
two children in the wilderness depths of The Dismal 
suffer the extremest privations, and Caesar frowns 
more angrily than ever. His shadow, as it gathers 
over the sorrow-burdened trio is black as Erebus it- 
self, and the song of which he once gave promise has 
fled from his lips, while the expression of his flinty 
features is that of war and rumors of war. 

God will bring good seed to maturity, however, in 
spite of the storms that sweep the fleld. The songs 
of “Old Harmony” may yet delight the inmates of a 
home under more propitious circumstances; and the 
elementary treatises may multiply their strength, day 
by day, until the dismal shades of ignorance shall 
give place to a crown of light, gracefully encircling 
the brows of those who were once Caesar’s subjects. 


CHAPTEE III. 

The Ornithologist and Herbalist. 

O N a cold, tlireateiiing afternoon in February, 1862, 
a stranger made bis appearance at the door of El- 
vina Grant’s humble dwelling, and politely begged a 
night’s lodging. The sky was overcast with dark, 
lowering clouds, and the cold wind whistled through 
the leafless tree tops, and howled along the cavernous 
mountain side like legions of hungry wolves. The 
poor soldier’s wife thought of her empty larder, and 
of her inability in every way to accommodate the 
chilled and shivering petitioner; but her 'womanly 
sympathy was too deeply stirred by the thin garb of 
the pedestrian, and with the thought, too, that some- 
where around the gleaming camp-fires her own hus- 
band was shelterless, to turn him away from the scant 
hospitalities of her roof. Therefore his request was 
granted. 

If the inmates of that home had lived out from un- 
der the shadow of the mountains they could have 
readily observed that the applicant for the hospitali- 
ties of their home was by no means a Southerner. 
As it was, however, they only knew that he was not a 
mQuntaineer, an inhabitant of that narrow world to 
them — The Dismal — the boundary lines of which shut 
out all the petty difiPerences of classes that might in- 
habit the far-away earth that seemed to kiss the blue 
sky in the distance. Therefore they looked upon him 
as simply a stranger from the great outside world, it 
made but little difference to them where. 

(32) 


83 


The Ornithologist mid llerhaliot. 

The facial features of the stranger wore rather an 
intelligent cast. The length of his nose and the 
breadth of his forehead were about equal. There was 
a very slight indenture in the nose where it joined the 
forehead, while the button, or end of that organ, was 
neither hard nor fleshy^ and its under lines were well 
delineated. His nose — the best facial index to char- 
acter — was neither pointed nor very broad; near his 
eyes, however, it was perhaps half an inch in breadth, 
yet by no means disproportioned on that account. 
His eyes were set well under a prominent forehead, 
and were dark and keenly penetrating. The lips were 
neither thick nor thin, but while in repose were kept 
firmly pressed together: but there was an expression 
of humor about the mouth that completely dissipated 
all rigorousness. A dark moustache curled from his 
upper, lip. His cheek-bones were high and rather 
prominent, indicative to the physiognomist of great 
mental power. The chin was somewhat pronounced, 
and his complexion — once fairer than now — was 
bronzed by exposure to the weather. 

He was a little above medium height, captivating 
in manner, and withal handsome. He was yet young, 
and- his carriage, as well as the expression of his 
countenance, impressed one that his manly body en- 
shrined a bony ant, fearless soul. This wandering 
stranger was of that class of men sometimes met with 
who have the remarkable gift of seeing in a moment 
into and through any thing that presents itself, and 
also of adjusting themselves to any group of circum- 
stances or to any condition just as quickly. There- 
fore the family were soon made to feel glad that they 
had admitted the stranger to the hospitalities of their 
roof and board. 

3 


34 


Out f rom under Ccesar^s Frown. 

His clothing was soiled and in rags, and he pre- 
sented the appearance of one who had traveled, con- 
tinuously, many miles on foot. In one hand he car- 
ried a little bundle, containing a change of raiment 
as ragged as the garments he had on his body. 

One could easily see, from the trend of his conver- 
sation, as strangely contradictory as it may appear 
from his physiognomic characteristics, that trans- 
cendant individualism was the system of mental phi- 
losophy which gave shape to all of his acts. He had 
been a soldier in the United States army, but after the 
first battles in Virginia his crude system of individu- 
alism completely mastered him; and, deserting the 
“columns of blue,” he drifted into the great Appa- 
lachian Mountains, and thence he had drifted west- 
ward along the great blue chain until he had reached 
The Dismal. He seemed to have but few or no affin- 
ities which bound liim to any particular section of 
country — just the kind of man, therefore, to make 
friends anywhere, when he conceived that such friends 
would be of advantage to him. 

The visitor was a regular walking cyclopedia for 
this secluded family. He Jiad seen war, walked the 
streets of America’s greatest cities, read books, and 
had even twice crossed the foam-capped billows of the 
great Atlantic; having, therefore, become conversant 
with many of the most classic sections of the old world. 

His name was Edward English, and as he sat be- 
fore the great blazing fire that cold night in Februa- 
ry, 1862, and talked of what he had seen, Jerusha 
and Tom were enraptured with his presence, and 
wished that it were possible to have such a visitor 
every day in the year. 


35 


The Ornithologist and Herbalist. 

Next morning the heavens were dark with great 
black clouds, and a fearful snow-storm was sweeping 
over the mountains, so that the visitor was shut in 
for another day and night, at least, with this delight- 
ed family. It was immaterial with Edward English 
whether he traveled or remained in this humble 
home. If he had been asked where he was journey- 
ing, he could not have told if his life had depended 
on it. He was simply drifting along the line of great 
blue mountains like a chip on the surface of a rolling 
stream, conscious of the fact that he had separated 
himself from the great organic block to which he 
properly belonged, and only anxious that this fact 
and his whereabouts should be concealed alike from 
friend and foe. 

Since .the enlistment of Micajah in the Confederate 
array there had been quite a gap in that little mount- 
ain home. Micajah, though he did little else than 
hunt when he was at home, kept the family larder 
well supplied with fat venison and turkey, and occa- 
sionally with the delicious meat of the black bear. 
He was therefore greatly missed, as well as the re- 
sults of his long tramps across the mountains; so 
that his dependent family were not only deprived of 
his to them cheerful company, but of those many pro- 
visions implied in the very name of father and hus- 
band. Now his trusty rifle rested on the crude rack 
of buck-horn, and his traps remained unbaited. 

Persons drift sometimes, as if by providential ap- 
pointment, into such gaps, and seem to exactly fit the 
vacuum in every way. Such Avas the case with Ed- 
ward English. The little family had grown brighter 
and more hopeful since his coming. Perhaps a gra- 


36 


Out from under Ccesar 's Frown. 

cious Euler had sent him to complete a work begun 
by the humble school-teacher and the musical sing- 
ing master. Who knows but that such designs en- 
tered the great plan of God? 

Anyhow the morning had not half passed before 
the genial deserter had donned a pair of Mica j ah’s 
coarse cowhide boots, at the solicitation of Tom, and 
had shouldered the trusty old rifle, and with Tom as 
his guide was clambering along the sides of the steep 
fountain toward the great shelving rocks -where the 
deer congregated during these snow-storms in order 
to keep warm and protect themselves from the driv- 
ing snow. Their tramp was rewarded by a flne buck. 
They dressed him and threw the savory meat across 
a pole, one end of which was supported on Tom’s 
shoulder, and the other end was grasped by the strong 
hand of the hardy Northerner. Thus they began 
their homeward march. They had, however, descend- 
ed the mountain but a little distance when the keen 
eye of the hunter discovered, crouching in the crev- 
ice of a great shelving rock, a large owl. The trusty 
old rifle feoon brought the prize to the ground. These, 
together with a great, ugly catamount that happened 
to scamper across their pathway, made up the results 
of their day’s tramp over the snow-covered mountain 
side. 

Tom was wild with boyish delight over the fat 
buck; but the deserter, taking but little interest in 
that part of the game, seemed to fix his attention en- 
tirely upon the large gray owl and the savage-looking 
wild-cat. The owl was a new species to him, while 
the catamount was the first one that he had ever seen. 

Beaching home at last, they salted away the ven- 


37 


The Ornithologist and Herbalist, 

ison, while Elvina and Jerusha prepared a dinner of 
corn-cakes and savory bits of steak. When dinner 
was over, the deserter snrprised the entire family by 
the expert manner in which he removed the skin from 
the frame of the great cat and the huge gray owl, 
without even a break in the delicate fiber of the lat- 
ter. He was somewhat of a taxidermist; and when he 
had stuffed the owl and placed it upon a pin in the 
wall, as if it were on its perch, their amazement was 
great indeed. 

Edward English had now completely won the af- 
fection and confidence of the entire family. His short 
stay of only a day and night had been long enough 
to link Tom’s heart, especially, to him with hooks of 
steel. If he were to leave them now, the whole family 
would feel bereaved. Such was the impression of 
every member of the little household, as Edward En- 
glish sat by. the great, crackling, blazing fire, and 
talked of the various species of owls and birds, and 
about their habits, haunts, and plumage. No, they 
could never suffer him to leave their humble roof. 
These thoughts, it is true, were not spoken, but they 
seemed to be tacitly agreed to and understood by all 
parties. So Edward English remained with the little 
family in The Dfsmal, and he and Tom spent many a 
happy day in hunting and trapping. 

Elvina Grant’s cabin was soon literally lined with 
stuffed birds of every species, so that it became the 
museum of the whole communit}". The neighbors 
said: “The new-comer can thess all but put life in a 
dead bird ur varmint ’fore you can turn round three 
times.” 

The larder was kept well filled with game of every 


38 Out from under Cwsar^s Froivn. 

kind, while Tom and Jerusha improved their little 
stock of knowledge under the tuition of the deserter. 
But Edward English’s knowledge of botany made 
him a herbalist as well as a taxidermist. He knew 
every herb of the forest, and understood their medic- 
inal virtues. Many indeed were the wonderful cures 
that he performed throughout The Dismal. He be- 
came, therefore, the great central figure, in every re- 
spect, of the community; and, notwithstanding Cae- 
sar’s unrelenting frowns and the sad results of his 
martial spirit, as it influenced Micajah, one home at 
least in The Dismal was beginning in some measure 
to emerge from the dark shadows which had fallen 
upon it. 

The light which the father’s enlistment as a soldier 
had almost extinguished had since the coming of En- 
glish passed into a steadier flame. Jerusha had 
learned much. Contact with the cleverly educated 
deserter had enlightened her thirsty mind; and while 
Tom had shared her progress, he had also imbibed a 
burning desire for knowledge. As he sat by the 
broad fire-place during the long winter evenings, and 
listened to Edward English’s talk, his very form, clad 
in a suit of ill-fitting blue jeans, seemed to resolve it- 
self into an interrogation point. 8hich deep-seated 
desires are hard to eradicate. Caesar’s veto shall 
never triumph. 

The simple current of home life in The Dismal 
moved thus quietly along, day after day, without a 
single unpleasant incident to ripple its placid sur- 
face. 

English, despite his individualistic trend of mind, 
was drawn more and more to the little family. 


Tile Ornithologist and llerhalist. B9 

His sympathy had so entwined its tendrils about the 
trio that he felt a deep interest in all that pertained 
to their welfare. It was a subject of frequent medi- 
tation with him as to how and why this to him appar- 
ently practical innovation of his selfish system of 
philosophy had been brought about. He could with 
stolid indifference still exercise his individualistic at- 
titude toward other people and other things, but not 
so toward the Grants. “ There must be a defect in 
a system of ethics that breaks down even at one 
point,” he would sometimes soliloquize. The secret of 
the whole matter was simply the fact that he had done 
much for the Grants in their time of want and of suf- 
fering; yet this thought, perhaps, had never occurred 
to him. The very idea of his almost paternal solici- 
tude for this secluded family frequently amused the 
cold, calculating deserter, and he would try to per- 
suade himself that he only cared for them because it 
brought to him for the time a more comfortable home 
than he would probably otherwise find. But after all 
this philosophizing on his part, he discovered that 
day after day he was striving more earnestly than 
ever before to bring joy and a measure of comfort to 
their hearts and home. 

Such were the problems that exercised English’s 
mind, till at last such a dark cloud of sorrow and grief 
gathered over the little cabin as to render him inca- 
pable of even thinking of his cherished system of 
selfish ethics. A wise but bitter providence opened 
an ample channel for the practical operation and ap- 
plication of every sympathetic energy of his soul. 

One night, a few days after Lee’s memorable charge 
on the slopes of Cemetery Heights, at Gettysburg, 


40 Out from under Coesar 's Frown, 

July 3, 1863, as the little circle sat pleasantly convers- 
ing around the crude hearth-stone of the little cabin 
in The Dismal, a messenger arrived from the country 
adjacent to the lower edge of the gloomy valley, to 
break to the family the sad news that Mica j ah Grant 
was among the brave men who had fallen on the 
bloody field of Gettysburg. 

■ Gettysburg! how the name rang in English’s ears! 
What childhood memories floated through his mind! 
A mother’s sweet face arose before his eyes, and the 
tender tones of her voice again greeted his ears. The 
steep slopes of Cemetery Heights, the broad valleys 
covered with apple orchards, the large old red barns, 
the comfortable farm-houses, together with the gut- 
tural tones of the old Dutch populace, came rolling 
back from memory’s well-stored chamber like echoes 
from another world. Amid these scenes sacred to En- 
glish on account of childhood’s sweet associations the 
father and husband of his dearest friends had fallen 
and was buried. 

English could do nothing during these hours of 
grief but sit and weep with those who wept; but he 
determined to be a father to these orphans, and to de- 
vote his life to their welfare. 

Strange providence this, that evolves from the grave 
of the father in an enemy’s land a comforter for the 
wife and children buried under the bitter frowns of 
nature’s Caesar, and hid away in the gloomy depths of 
The Dismal; a providence, too, that selects a man to 
all appearances most incompetent of all others, be- 
cause of the selfish system of ethics by which he 
lived, to perform this benevolent work; a mysterious 
providence because it proceeds from God, whose 
thoughts are higher than our thoughts! 


CHAPTEE IV. 

The Eecluse. 

U EEY soon after Edward English' made his appear- 
ance in The Dismal, strange stories became cur- 
rent among the denizens of that isolated section 
relative to a weird figure that had been frequently- 
observed, on moonlight nights, clambering along the 
bleak sides of the frowning precipices of rock that 
arose so abruptly out of the melancholy solitudes of the 
valley. This strange specter had been seen standing 
upon a great j utting crag directly over Mica j ah Grant’s 
little cabin. His beard, so popular gossip affirmed, 
was as white as snow and reached nearly to his knees; 
his hair fell in great white locks about his shoulders. 
A large white mantle was thrown carelessly over his 
somewhat stooped form. He leaned upon a long staff, 
and seemed to be intently watching the little cabin 
beneath where he stood. The wind toyed with his 
white beard and locks, and the white mantle fluttered 
in the stiff breeze like a pennant from the mast-head. 
Thus he stood motionless for half an hour. Then 
starting up suddenly from his reverie, he drew his 
tall, angular form to its greatest height, jesticulated 
wildly, and made thrust after thrust with his long 
staff at what seemed to be an imaginary enemy, after 
which encounter he vanished suddenly from the sight 
of the beholder, sinking apparently into the great 
granite rock upon which he had been standing. 

Again he had been observed to wander along the 

( 41 ) 


42 


Out from imder Cmsar ’s Froim. 

craggy heights, casting ever and anon quick glances 
toward the cabin which clung so tenaciously to the 
frowning mountain side. He seemed, by his jesticu- 
lations, to be in earnest conversation with some im- 
aginary companion, and the topic seemed to be about 
some matter of business, for he frequently drew out 
from under his white mantle ’what seemed to be pack- 
ages of papers; holding them up to the light of the 
moon, he would finger rapidly through the bundle un- 
til he came apparently to the right one, when he would 
draw it out, point excitedly, it appeared, to its phrase- 
ology, place it between his thumb and finger, and 
with his arm stretched out to’ward the little cabin on 
the side of the mountain, he would violently shake 
the document held in this position, as if the contents 
pertained in some way to the little hut or to some of 
its inmates. Then the strange figure would retire 
quickly behind some great bowlder, as if seized with 
sudden fright, and remain concealed from those who 
had beheld the weird visitor and his strange freaks. 
The deportment of this shade, apparently of some 
aged deceased person, was ghostly in the extreme sense 
of that term, and enough, really, to impress the brav- 
est of men with feelings of awe. 

One can, therefore, easily imagine the impression 
w^hich such unnatural appearances, purported to have 
been witnessed by some of the most truthful inhabit- 
ants of The Dismal, were calculated to have upon the 
minds of the ignorant and superstitious populace. 
The “ hantf as this peculiar phenomenon was gener- 
ally designated, was the common topic of conversation 
around every fireside in The Dismal. The children 
and the more timidly disposed adults would not lift 


The Recluse. 


43 


their eyes after night-fall toward Csosar’s frowning 
brow for fear of beholding the much talked of specter. 
The belated hunter, or those otherwise compelled to 
be out after dark, were conscious of a quicker pace 
than usual, though they would not have acknowledged, 
perhaps, that the thoughts of the hoary old cliff-walk- 
er had any thing to do with their energetic steps; for 
only truly brave men, who are not as plentiful as one 
might suppose, will own their fear. 

Various theories, of course, were put forth in order 
to solve this mystery of the cliffs. Some of the more 
superstitious affirmed that it was nothiug else but the 
“sperit” of Micajah Grant, which was 'dissatisfied 
about some earthly interest or which possessed some 
great mystery which it was anxious to make knowm to 
the denizens of The Dismal; for they said if one died 
in any way dissatisfied the spirit of the deceased was 
sure to come back to this world, to execute, presuma- 
bly, as a matter of course, any item of unfinished bus- 
iness that might remain on the calendar of life. 

Others maintained that years ago, quoting tradi- 
tion, a belated and unknown traveler had missed his 
way in the darkness of night and had ridden his horse 
over the brow of the great precipice and been dashed 
to pieces upon the rocks below; and inasmuch as he 
had not been buried, for they said his bo»es had been 
found years afterward bleaching upon the mountain 
side, that his spirit still hovered about the spot. A 
strange freak, to be sure, of superstitious frenzy that 
even disturbs the shades of the reposing dead, because 
items of unfinished business, necessitated by insur- 
mountable circumstances, pertaining not so much to 
the dead as to the living, yet remain. With these two 


44 Out from under Ccesar’s Frown, 

conjoint cai^salities of the appearances of ghosts, as 
ascribed by these ignorant mountaineers, it is passing 
strange that hades has not been emptied of its dissat- 
isfied millions. 

But theories born of error, superstition, and igno- 
rance are always numerous as well as inconsistent and 
incongruous, therefore a third party declared that it 
was simply a “ ha’nt,” and that nobody would ever find 
out any more about it than was already known, but 
that the death of some one of the trio then living in 
Micajah’s cabin would surely take place before it 
ceased its visitations, and that such “ha’nts ” were al- 
ways sent a^ a warning to the living. 

Such, in part, were the theories put forth by what 
might have been termed the thinking classes of the 
denizens of The Dismal to solve this wonderful phe- 
nomenon. And it is presumable that each speculator 
saw through and thoroughly understood the abstruse 
problem which his speculations satisfactorily solved. 
Many persons had visited the Grant family in order 
to talk with Edward English relative to it; but he had 
always turned away the subject by laughing at the 
idea of any such api)earance, affirming that there was 
no such thing as a spirit being discerned by natural 
eyes and that those who claimed to have seen this 
aged clifP-dweller had simply beheld some white ani- 
mal climbing along the mountain side or some float- 
ing skirt of fog as it arose from the valley and was 
resolved into drops of water as it came into contact 
with the cold surface of the overhanging rocks, and 
that the beholder, laboring under intense excitement, 
had surmised that it was an old man leaning upon his 
staff or walking rapidly along the precipice. The ig- 


The Recluse. 


45 


norant visitors, therefore, were much impressed with 
Euglish’s learning as he explained to them the philo- 
sophic principles upon which his latter theory was 
based, but they always went away grieved at his skep- 
ticism relative to “ha’nts,” and many were heard to 
utter the wish that Edward English himself might 
behold the white-mantled old denizen of the crags as 
he took his moonlight strolls and that the skeptical 
stranger might get so near to the “ ha’nt,” or rather 
that it might get so near to him, that every doubt 
might be removed from his mind as to its reality. 

And, strange to say, such was the case. He beheld 
it with his own eyes, and his ears were greeted with the 
hoarse, croaking sound of its voice. One night as the 
young Northerner stood with his two pupils in front 
of their little cabin home pointing out to them and 
describing also the mythological history of the con- 
stellation of Orion, tracing the stars that form the 
drawn bow and the girdle and sword that hung at his 
side, as well as the other stars which go to make up 
the astronomical picture, he and his pupils were start- 
led by a voice that rang out upon the still night air 
from the cliffs that towered above them. Looking up 
in the direction whence came the voice, they beheld 
the much talked of ghost standing upon a great jut- 
ting rock directly over their crude dwelling. Sure 
enough there was the fluttering white robe, the tall 
stooping form with his great mass of hoary hair and 
snow-white beard waving in the slightest breeze. As 
the ghostly flgure stood leaning on his staff, while the 
mellow beams of the moon fell full upon his aged 
form, he indeed presented a weird-looking figure. 

The first impulse of Edward English was to climb 


46 Out from under Ccesar ’s Frown. 

immediately into the presence of the specter-like fig- 
iire, but a second thought assured him that no mortal 
could climb up the perpendicular sides of the rocky 
clilf ; therefore he was forced to stand where he was 
and gaze upon the strange figure. 

Again the ghostly figure spoke, and the croaking 
tones of his voice, rebounding from a hundred craggy 
granite sounding-boards above him, appeared in echo 
to the astonished listeners like the voice of ghost an- 
swering ghost from every rocky-cavern and every jut- 
ting crag. 

“Ha! ha! ha! thou no longer fightest thy country’s 
battles, but teachest ignorant mountain lad and lass 
what thou hast learned in unprofitable books. Curses 
on thy dead father’s foolish freak that caused him to 
sacrifice his son on the altar of vaiu learning. Why 
pointest thou to the stars? Do they remind thee of 
the glittering gold thou hast lost? Ah! friend Ed- 
ward, my losses are greater than thine! Miriam, the 
fruitful vine is not, Jacob and Nathaniel and Lemuel 
and Moses have fallen before the fierceness of the un- 
circumcised invaders. They turned not the left cheek 
when smitten by the enemy on the right; verily, they 
were not^men of peace, therefore they are fallen; their 
homes were as the chaff under the hottest blast of 
hell! But behold, friend Edward! here are the deeds 
and titles and bonds and notes; the enemy hath not 
destroyed them, ha! ha! ha! ” demoniacally laughed the 
aged ghost as he concluded this sentence burdened 
with his fearful losses and crushing misfortunes. 

“But,” said the mysterious figure in subdued tones, 
as if what he was saying was too awful for all ears, 
“ Bebecca hath fled from her home, and Naomi and 


The lied use. 


47 


Euth— accursed be tlie days wherein they were born, 
ha! ha!” he laughed as a fiend laughs to drown, his 
misery and mock his conscience. 

“Friend Edward!” he confessed, “I coveted thy 
father's gold, and heaven’s curse hath overtaken me! 
Farewell, children, count the stars if you can, but 
thirst not after that which glitters, for verily, ‘ the 
love of money is the root of all evil.’ ” 

At the conclusion of this wild, demoniacal address, 
which sounded in the ears of the fear-stricken audi- 
tors like a wail from the nethermost pit, the mysteri- 
ous old man vanished among the great bowlders that 
composed the settings in the granite crown that en- 
circled frowning old Caesar’s brow. 

Tom Grant was the first to break the silence that 
naturally prevailed for a few moments after the con- 
clusion of this strange episode. 

“ That, indeed, was no skirt of fog floating along the 
mountain’s brow,” said the astonished youth, “ for fog 
has neither hair, beard, nor tongue.” 

“ You are correct,” replied English, as the trio di- 
rected their steps toward the door of the little cabin; 
“neither is it a ghost, but he is a crazy old Quaker, 
whom I have had every opportunity to know even 
more intimately than I desire and whose very blood 
has been jaundiced by his thirst for gold. I shall 
seek out his dwelling-place among the cliffs, and strive 
to renew his acquaintance where there are no impen- 
etrable barriers between us.” 

“What!” said Jerusha, looking up into Edward’s 
faca from under the long, drooping eyelashes that 
shaded cheeks now pale with fear, “ you would not 
kill the poor old man? ” 


48 Out f rom under Ccesar^s Frown. 

“ Nay, verily! ” exclaimed Edward just as they en- 
tered tlie house, “but I should like very much to get 
my hands upon the bundle of papers which he shook 
so menacingly at me, for they are justly my property. 
Tom, we will seek to-morrow the aerie of this old bird, 
who has fed on human flesh long enough, for it seems 
that heaven’s vengeance has already overtaken him. 
He has devoured homes, and now it seems that he, 
himself homeless and comfortless, would haunt me, 
whom he has irreparably wronged, with the agonies 
which his own covetousness has brought upon him. 
But, I pray you, speak to no one about what you have 
heard and seen to-night, for were it known that I am 
the cause of his nocturnal visits, as you well know, 
the superstitious populace would chase me from The 
Dismal as they would a bear. I will explain the whole 
matter to you, who have been the dearest friends of 
my life, and if I regain that which is justly mine, I 
assure you I will not possess it alone, but wull divide 

it with those who have been friends indeed.” 

# 

When they .were seated around the crude hearth- 
stone, Edward English explained to them the mys- 
tery of the clifts, which it would not be proper to 
introduce at this place. The explanation Tvas satis- 
factory to the inmates of the little cabin, and, indeed, 
it drew their hearts closer to the sharer of their hum- 
ble home than ever before. 

On the following day, however, Tom and Edward 
sought throughout every nook and corner of the 
frowning precipice for the old recluse, who, to all ap- 
pearances, had taken up his dwelling-place there ; but 
they were compelled to return without flnding the 
faintest evidence anywhere of his whereabouts. 


The Recluse. 


49 


The ‘‘ ha’nt,” as the mountaineers generally denomi- 
nated the phenomenon, however, rarely ever appeared 
on the overhanging crags after this revelation of him- 
self to English; but stories of his awful presence and 
clarion-like voice still lingered in The Dismal, and 
many persons connected, in some way or other, Ed- 
ward English with the weird figure that had been so 
frequently seen standing upon the great crags that 
protruded from the precipice. Prejudice and super- 
stition waxed stronger and stronger, and many people 
actually affirmed that English was a conjurer, or in 
some way in league with the devil. We shall, never- 
theless, see the “ ha’nt ” again. 

4 


CHAPTEE y. 

Dick Ivey on Cupid’s Teeeitoky. 

D ick IVEY was the only son of a well to do little 
farmer, who lived on the head waters of North 
Saluda, and just in the edge of The Dismal proper. 
He entered the Confederate service at the beginning 
of that bloody struggle between the States, and fought 
bravely almost to its close. His arm was shattered by 
a minie-ball during Johnson’s retreat across Georgia 
in September, 1864; so that in the autumn of that 
gloomy year to the almost prostrate South he reached 
his home on furlough, being thus disabled from all 
service. 

When he arrived at his father’s little plantation in 
the edge of The Dismal, it was only to awake to the 
sad realization that troubles and misfortunes rarely 
come alqne, but in growing clusters and ever increas- 
ing groups. 

The father and mother had both died during Dick’s ^ 
long absence, the little mountain farm had gone very 
considerably to wreck, and each returning soldier- 
brought only news of defeat to the Southern army, 
so that the clouds of gloom and disappointment con- 
tinued to thicken day by day until Dick Ivey became 
almost desperate under the constantly growing bur- 
dens which he had sustained and which were being 
rolled upon him in such rapid succession; and not 
upon him alone, but shared by many brave Southern 
men. 


51 


Dick Ivey on CiqncVs Territory. 

Sorrows and disappointments, like all things, have 
within them a twofold possibility. They may be so 
harvested by the sufferer as to bring out all the la- 
tent forces of his nature and thus strengthen and de- 
velop all within him that is beautiful and manly, or 
they may so react on their unfortunate victim as to 
bring out all that is loathsome and detestable in man’s 
nature. One frequently beholds in great factories or 
in other pieces of mechanism two wheels turning in 
opposite directions yet contributing to the same re- 
sultant force, as their combined forces are thrown, 
by means of belts or cogs, upon a third shaft or 
wheel. So it is with what may be termed the pleas- 
ant and bitter things of this life. If under divine 
grace we humbly submit to all the providential oc- 
currences of this life, the disastrous, so thought of 
and denominated by us, as well as the fortunate, the 
sweet as well as the bitter, and the joyful as well as 
the sorrowful things of this life will all contribute to 
one resultant force, “For we know that all things 
work together for good to them that love God.” But 
if we break away from and rebel against God, if we 
murmur and repine, then it is that we spoil the de- 
signs on the Master’s trestle-board, and are ourselves 
the only sufferers. 

Dick Ivey’s sorrow embittered his heart. The very 
time itself, as he sat nursing his wounded arm, hung 
like an unsupportable burden upon his soul. He re- 
solved, therefore, to seek some diversion, and, having 
heard of the expert woodsman, Edward English, who 
was staying with his old friends, the Grants, he de- 
termined to pay the family a visit in order to meet 
him, and to participate in his hunting tours across 


52 Out from tinder Ccesar^s Frown, 

the* mountains. He accordingly set out early one 
morning for Micajah’s cabin, and reached it just as 
Tom and Edward were about to go forth on their 
day’s sport. After the usual greetings and mutual 
interchange of good wishes and congratulations be- 
tween the Grants and Dick Ivey, Tom insisted that 
his old friend accompany them on their hunting ex- 
cursion, and that he also remain their guest for some 
days to come. Of course Dick readily accepted the 
invitation; for he had not only come with such a de- 
termination, but already the sweet voice and the 
physical beauty of Jerusha’s person had caused him 
to forget, for the time, his sorrows; and really, when 
he looked upon her charming figure, he discovered 
that all the anguish and bitterness of his soul van- 
ished as^the impression on the w^ax when subjected to 
the heat of the fiame. ‘‘Verily,” thought he, “I have 
found a perfect antidote for all my troubles.” And 
indeed he had; for love is the wings of the soul, and 
when you clip the pinions of the joyous songster life 
itself becomes a burden, and “the soul may sooner 
leave ofi to subsist than to love; and like the vine, it 
withers and dies if it has nothing to embrace.” Ev- 
ery thing which Dick Ivey had loved was either dead 
or dying; and being an utter stranger to the graces of 
Christianity, he was embittered, dejected, and crushed 
when those earthly props were cut away from the life 
which they supported. So a life based on mere tem- 
poralities must suffer much, and at last be crushed 
and despised forever. A life, therefore, forgetting 
all its own selfish interests, and losing itself in the 
service of those it loves, may be happy for a time; 
but, philosophically considered, such a life is only re- 


53 


Dick Ivey on Cupid^s Territory. 

moved one degree from the most detestable individu- 
alism; in the one the end of life is in self alone, in 
the other the end is solely in somebody else or some- 
thing, therefore it is patent tliat the difference be- 
tween the two is not in quality but in kind. 

That profound thinker and philosopher, Hamilton, 
has beautifully declared that “there are some plants 
which grow right up, erect in their own sturdy self- 
sufficiency; and there are some feeble ones which 
take hold with their hands, and clasp and climb. The 
soul of man is like the last. Even in his best estate, 
he was not meant to grow insulated and alone. He 
is not strong enough for that. He has not within 
himself resources sufficient to fill himself. He is not 
fit to be his own all in all. The make of his mind is an 
outgoing, exploring, petitionary make. The soul of 
man is a clasping, clinging soul, seeking for something 
over which it can spread itself, and by means of which, 
it can support itself. And just as in a neglected gar- 
den you may see the poor creepers making shift to 
sustain themselves as best they can — one convolvulus 
twisting round another, and both draggling on the 
ground; a clematis leaning on the door, which will, 
by and by, open and let the whole mass fall down; a 
vine or a passion-flower wreathing round a prop which 
all the while chafes and cuts it — so in this fallen world 
it is mournful to see the efforts which human souls 
are making to get some sufficient object to lean upon 
and twine around. One clasps a glittering prop, and 
it scathes him. The love of money blasts his soul, and 
it hangs round its self-chosen stay a blighted, with- 
ered thing. Another spreads himself more amply 
over a broad surface of creature comfort, a snug 


54 Out f rom under Cmsar^s Frown, 

dwelling, a well-furnislied library, and pleasant neigh- 
bor hood, with the command of every thing which 
heart can wish or fortune buy; but death opens the 
door, and, with nothing but vacancy to lean upon, ho 
falls over on the other side, a helpless and dejected 
being. And a still greater number, groping about on 
the ground, cleave to one another, and intertwine their 
tendrils mutually, and by forming friendships and 
congenial intimacies and close relations try to sat- 
isfy their leaning, loving nature in this way. But it 
answers little- in the end. The make of man’s soul is 
upward, and one climber cannot lift another off the 
ground. And the growth of man’s soul is luxuriant, 
and that growth must be stifled, checked, and scanty, 
if he have no larger space over which to diffuse his 
aspirations, his affections, and his efforts than the 
surface of a fellow-creature’s soul.. But weedy as the 
world-garden is, the Tree of Life still grows in the 
midst of it, erect in his own omnipotent self-suffi- 
ciency, and inviting every weary, straggling soul to 
lay hold of his everlasting strength, and expatiate 
upward along the infinite ramifications of his end- 
less excellences and all-inviting love.” 

Dick Ivey was adrift because his props were fail- 
ing; they v/ere no stronger than he was. Just here 
is the secret of all failure. The beautiful writer 
quoted above affirms still farther that “God has 
formed the soul of man of a leaning, dependent make; 
and for the healthy growth and joyful development 
of that soul it is essential that he should have some 
object far higher and nobler than himself to dispread 
his desires and delights upon. That object is re- 
vealed in the gospel. That object is Immanuel. His 


55 


Dick Ivey on Cupid^s Territory. 

divinity is the almighty prop, able to sustain the ad- 
hering soul so that it shall never perish nor come 
into condemnation; the omnipotent support which 
bears the clinging spirit loftily and securely, so that 
the whirling temptations which vex it cannot rend it 
from the Tree of Life, and that the muddy plash^^ 
which soils and beats into the earth its sprawling 
neighbors, cannot tarnish the verdent serenity and 
limpid glories of its flowering head. And just this di- 
vine strength is the omnipotent prop of the adhering 
soul, so his divine resources and his human sympathy 
make him the all-suflicient object over which each 
eitiotion and each desire of regenerate humanity may 
boundlessly diffuse itself. And however delicate your 
feelings, however eager your affections, and however 
multitudinous the necessities of your intricate nat- 
ure, there is that in this heavenly Friend which 
meets them every one. There are in his unimag- 
inable compassions and in his benignant fellow-feel- 
ing holds sufficient for every craving tendril and 
eager clasper of the human heart to flx upon and 
wreathe around.” 

We have thus quoted Scotland’s greatest philoso- 
pher because it is a flue danger signal that he por- 
trays, and also because the great man shows in this 
utterance the philosophy or cause of failure and utter 
ruin so frequently met with on every hand. 

Dick Ivey had been made miserable because his 
love was centered on nothing above that which is of 
the earth; but if even now the tendrils of his affec- 
tion And other supports than those which have and are 
falling, the bitterness of his heart will vanish, for 
“love, that geyser of the soul, can melt the ice and 


66 


Out from under Ccesar^s Frown. 

snow of the most frozen regions; wherever its warm 
springs well up, there glows a Southern climate.” 

If therefore he succeed in winning Jerusha Grant’s 
affections and hand, ample reparation will be made 
for all his losses — that is, so long as the. object of his 
affection lives. He accordingly accepted the invita- 
tion, and set out immediately with the two hunters in 
their day’s tramp across the mountains, while his 
thoughts remained with the fair occupant of the little 
cabin in Caesar’s rocky lap. 

Woman’s eye is quick to read any disturbing influ- 
ence in the heart of those whom she esteems even as 
friends. AVhile the hasty interchange of greetings 
Avere taking place between the two children of Mica- 
jah Grant and Dick Ivey, Jerusha had noticed the 
unusual deportment of Edward English. Standing 
motionless in the rear of the wearer of the gray, and 
facing Jerusha, he closely scanned the Confederate 
soldier from the crown of his head to the soles of his 
feet; and when his eyes fell upon the protruding 
breech of a large silver-mounted revolver which Dick 
carried at his side, there came a dark scowl over the 
turbulent features of his face. 

When the AA'ounded soldier shifted his position, 
turning away from Jerusha, she beheld’ somewhat ar- 
tistically carved into the silver mounting of the revol- 
ver the initals, in large capitals, ‘‘E. E.” Her wom- 
an’s instinct was quick to invent many probable 
causes of Edward’s displeasure. She very naturally 
suspected that the side-arms which the Confederate 
soldier wore had once been the property of Edward En- 
glish; at least the letters “E. E.” suggested so much. 
But as to how the pistol had fallen into the hands of 


57 


Dick Ivey on Cupid Territory. 

Dick Ivey slie could not imagine; but she believed, 
from the Northerner’s deportment, that back of it all 
there was something very unpleasant to her pre- 
ceptor. 

With the mystery still unsolved, in Jerusha’s mind, 
except as to the theories born of her conjectures, the 
trio set out on their tramp through the forests of 
The DismaL The day passed away, so far as Jerusha 
was concerned, full of anxieties for the welfare of the 
dearest friend of her life; and as it drew toward a 
close many indeed were the uneasy glances directed 
up the little pathway in anticipation of the returning 
hunters. The solicitude that filled the heart of the 
belle of The Dismal on that day made so long by dark 
forebodings was analogous to that felt by Israel’s 
great king when he so pathetically asked: “Is the 
young man Absalom safe? ” She must, however, await 
patiently for the final issue of all her conjectures. 


CHAPTEE VI. 
The Warning. 


O bitter doom ever sweeps precipitately down 



upon any mortal without a providential warning 
of the approaching calamity. The difficulty wdth 
man is that he does not try to catch the sound of 
these premonitory voices that continually fill the air 
round about us. The greatest need that all men have 
is a lack of wisdom — that is, the power to practically 
apply the knowledge that he has; hence we know 
better than we do. 

After the three sportsmen left the cabin of Elvina 
Grant the day passed away pleasantly, to all appear- 
ances, with all of them. Edward English’s individu- 
alism had enabled him to master any bitterness that 
may have infl^imed his heart; and, entering heartily 
into the day’s sport, he had exhibited many feats of 
an expert woodsman, to the great delight of Tom, and 
at least challenging the admiration of Dick Ivey. 

The latter, however, had been a C/bnfederate soldier 
too long to mistake the Northern dialect of Edw^d 
English; and, despite the friendly bearing and admira- 
ble feats of the Northerner, his shibboleth was a ground 
of offense to the wounded soldier. This English was 
quick to discover, for he perceived that Ivey was ear- 
nestly trying to arouse his patriotism and resentment 
by the frequent allusions he made in his conversation 
to the cowardly “blue coats; ” but English, delighted 


to discover that his companion did not recognize one 


( 58 ) 


59 


The Warning, 

whom he had met before, was too individualistic to no- 
tice the thrusts made at that army of which for a while 
at least he was a fractional part. So the day passed 
away without any perceptible bitterness, at least to a 
casual observer, between these two representatives 
not only of the two great political parties of one great 
government; but also, practically speaking, of the two 
great systems of philosophy which conjointly have 
been instrumental in sapping and frowning down real 
progress and all forward movements of the Church, 
as well as the State, more than all other causes com- 
bined. 

Individualism and humanitarianism do indeed con- 
stitute a Caesar of flintier features and darker shad- 
ows than that which sways supreme rule over the 
tangled forests of The Dismal. We are aware that 
Dick Ivey could not be classed as a humanitarian in the 
strict acceptation of that term, but the motives wliich 
produced every act of his life were strictly analagous to 
those that govern the true humanitarian. That rule 
of conduct which prompts all the acts of one’s life, 
and derives all of its force solely from a conceived in- 
herent good in the thing done or the measure espoused 
or advocated, without reference to divine law and re- 
quirements, may very properly come under the head 
of that degrading system of moral philosophy to 
which we have just alluded. 

Dick Ivey put his faith in measures, and no matter 
how good and just those measures may have been, 
his faith could of necessity rise no higher than that 
in which it was placed. 

We have digressed thus far to show more clearly 
how a providential warning was sent to these two rep- 


60 


Out from under Caesar* s Froivn. 

resentatives of those systems of philosophy of which 
we have just written, and to make plain the applica- 
tion of the conversation which we are going to re- 
cord. 

The sportsmen rambled through the forest of the 
undulatory valley till they reached the cabin of Caleb 
Catsby, a Primitive Baptist preacher, who lived just 
in the edge of the western boundary of The Dismal 
proper. This backwoods divine was by no means an 
ignorant man, though he was neither educated nor re- 
fined in the common acceptation of those terms. He 
was emphatically a man of one book, having made 
the Bible his chief study for a period stretching over 
half a century. He was an original thinker, a close 
observer, and a natural logician. His tall form, white 
locks, deep bass voice; keen, penetrating eyes, togeth- 
er with the serene, thoughtful expression of his coun- 
tenance, impressed any one with whom he came into 
contact with feelings of reverence and awe; remind- 
ing the spectator of those striking pen-pictures of Is- 
rael’s old prophets, as they walked amid the solitudes 
of primeval nature and communed with nature’s 
God. 

Edward English had frequently sought the compa- 
ny of this old priest in the wood, though it cost him 
a long walk, just to hear the aged man of God con- 
verse upon those principles of philosophy which he 
had evolved, without the help of books, from the word 
of God and his extensive observation and experi- 
ence. 

On the occasion of this last visit, after the little 
company had partaken of a plain meal at the old 
preacher’s hospitable board, and had gathered around 


61 


The W arning, 

the broad, open fire-place’ English, in order to draw 
the host into conversation, asked: “Well, Grandpa 
Catsby ” (a name by which he was universally ad- 
dressed by those who knew him), “what have you 
been thinking about since I saw you last?” 

“ The war,” quickly replied the old preacher, “ an’ 
its lessons.” 

“And what have been your conclusions?” queried 
English. 

The old man’s reply to the first question and En- 
glish’s second interrogation had fixed Dick Ivey’s at- 
tention upon the conversation, for he was always in- 
terested in what pertained to the war. 

“Ah me!” groaned th.e old seer of the secluded 
wood, “we’re goin’ to be whipped; but that’s not the 
worst that’s in store for us. More’ll be slain by the 
results of this war than have been killed on the bat- 
tle-field,” gravely responded the old man. 

, “ How is that. Grandpa Catsby? ” asked the shrewd 

yankee. 

“Well, it’s mighty plain, ’cordin’ to Scriptur’ an’ 
common sense,” the old preacher said; “for are we 
not told that ‘whosoever heareth these sayings of 
mine, and doeth them, I will liken, him unto a ‘wise 
man, which built his house upon a rock: and the rain 
descended, and the floods came, and the winds blew, 
and beat upon that house; and it fell not: for it was 
founded upon a rock. And every one that heareth 
these sayings of mine, and doeth them not, shall be 
likened unto a foolish man, which built his house 
upon the sand: and the rain descended, and the floods 
came, and the winds blew, and beat upon that house; 
and it fell: and great was the fall of it.’ ” 


62 


Out from under Ccesar^s Frown. 

After this somewhat lengthy quotation from the in- 
spired volume, byway of application he said: “Ther’s 
goin’ to be thousands of people swept down the 
stream of despair, because that which they’ve put 
their trust in has failed.” 

“ Then you think that Christ teaches in this para- 
ble the folly of putting one’s faith in any thing earth- 
ly?” interrogated English, appreciating heartily the 
fact that the old man’s application of this Scripture 
was very discordant with Ivey’s way of thinking 
“and that our Saviour, appreciating the appalling 
dangers along such lines of human thought and ap- 
tion, seeks to warn men by this red danger signal 
which he has reared over this abysmal wash-out on 
the road of human action apart from divine super- 
vision.” 

“ Exactly,” said the old man, while his countenance 
beamed with joy at the thought of English having 
properly conceived the lesson he was trying to con- 
vey. 

“That is what I believe,” responded English; and 
his reply was not the result so much of his sincere 
acquiescence to the scriptural application which the 
man of God had made as it was the consequence of 
his individualistic trend of mind in turning for selfish 
ends the full force of these pertinent lessons upon 
Dick Ivey, who sat listening intently to the conversa- 
tion. 

“And,” said English, continuing to make use of 
the advantage gained, “to love issues or humanity, 
to cultivate patriotism or benevolence simply for the 
good we see in these things alone is idolatry, and is 
therefore dishonoring and detestable.” 


The Warning. 63 

“Just so, Mr. English,” said the hoary-haired 
preacher, its buildiii’ on a sandy foundation, an’ 
when the thing in which men thus put their trust 
fails, they’re mor’n apt to become wrecks.” 

How true indeed were the conclusions drawn by 
this unlearned man from the inspired volume! An 
immortal soul, the forces of whose life here must in- 
evitably penetrate eternity, must have a higher and 
grander fulcrum upon which to rest the leverage of 
its mission while on earth than any thing terrestial, 
immortal man not excepted. For Christ’s sake alone 
must constitute the basic line of all his actions, other- 
wise his work must at last float like debris about him, 
to haunt him throughout eternity with the mistakes 
and follies of his earthly career. 

English heartily assented to all that the good man 
had said, and as the trio were taking their leave of the 
humble minister he followed them to the edge of the 
yard, as if he were -anxious to continue the conversa- 
tion, and as he shook English’s hand he said: “An’ 
what I have said, Mr. English, applies to men who 
live only for selfish ends in this life; when troubles 
come they fail too, because self is a sandy founda- 
tion an’, mark you, in His sayin’s alone is there 
safety.” 

English felt the full force of the preacher’s pointed 
and personal remark, though not designedly so, and 
as he shook the old man’s hand he acquiesced to the 
truthfulness of his declaration and determined to at 
least give the line of thought which had engaged their 
attention on that occasion a more thorough investi- 
gation. 

Will Dick Ivey profit by what he has heard ? Events 


64 Out from under Ccesar^s Froivn. 

yet to be recorded will answer that important ques- 
tion. 

The trio returned, however, at the close of the day 
to Elvina Grant’s little cabin, and Jerusha’s anxieties 
were dissipated for the time at least by their cheerful 
demeanor. 


CHAPTER VII. 

Dick Ivey’s Incipient Couetship. 



AYING returned to the cabin, the earlier part of 


1 1 the evening was largely spent in listening to Dick 
Ivey rehearse the scenes of bloody conflict through 
which he had passed. His denunciations of the “ blue 
coats,” as he styled the Northern soldiers, were scath- 
ing indeed, and it was quite natural that such should 
be their character in the presence of Jerusha Grant, 
for while it would not be correct to say, perhaps, that 
Dick was in love with the fair damsel, yet probabili- 
ties were playing an important part in shaping his de- 
portment. And what phase of Cupid’s proceedings 
is more interesting and even more amusing to the 
close observer than the incipient stages of^ his freak- 
ish and often ridiculous career. 

Dick Ivey was by no means insensible to Jerusha’s 
charms; the way, therefore, in his estimation must be 
cleared of every obstacle, and knowing that English 
was at least Northern-bred, and might probably be a 
rival, the wounded soldier strove to beget within her 
heart such prejudices against all Northerners as to 
forever insure her against any probable overtures of 
love from that source. The mind, whether cultivated 
or debased, is ever conscious of the potency of preju- 
dice as a weapon in aggressive or defensive combat: 
It has indeed slain millions. Hence Christ delivered 
one of his most pointed and convincing parables, that 
of “the good Samaritan,” in order to break down that 


5 


( 65 ) 


66 Out from under Ccesar's Froini. 

barrier existing between man and man. Bnt alas! 
liow universally disregarded! 

Well has Anthony Ilorneck said: “What wdll not 
prejudice do? It was that w^hich made the Jews call 
Christ a Samaritan, a devil, a wdne-bibber, a friend cf 
publicans and sinners. It was that which made them 
hail the apostles to their governors and cry out: 
‘Away with them! It is not fit that they should live.’ 
It was this that made Aha'b hate the upright Micaiah 
and the Athenian condemn the just Aristides, though 
he had never seen him. It was this made the poor 
man, who knew not what John Huss’s doctrine was, 
so busy and industrious to carry wood for his funeral 
pile, and as zealous to kindle it, inasmuch that the 
martyr could not but cry out: ‘O holy simplicity!’ 
It is this sets men against consideration of their ways 
and makes them give out that it will crack their brains 
and disorder their understanding.” 

But, like all dangerous weapons, one must ‘be care- 
ful in the using, for it as frequently reacts on the 
wdelder as it does execution in tlie ranks of the enemy. 
Dick Ivey might have learned so much had he been 
a close observer, as he vented his hate upon the foe 
he had met, and bravely too, in a score of well-fought 
battles. His promiscuous condemnation of the North- 
ern soldiery and his declaration of their universal 
cowardice, drew repeated shadows across Jerusha’s 
face, though she was as truly Southern in all her pro- 
clivities and sympathies as any woman South of the 
Mason and Dixon line. True manhood and true 
womanhood always detest a spirit of uncompromising 
abuse and of egotistic vaunting. Edward English had 
observed the countenance of his fair pupil and had 


67 


Dick Ivey^s Incipient Courtship. 

read unerringly the emotions that struggled within 
her heart; therefore this, together with his individ- 
ualism, so completely fortified him against the attacks 
of his probable rival that he rather invited than de- 
fied his thrusts, for the enemy, he conceived, was 
valiantly fighting his battles. 

But there was an incident related by the wounded 
soldier which, for a moment at least, threatened like 
a ponderous solid shot to- tear away the strong bul- 
warks behind which English had taken refuge. Ivey 
had remarked that he had the satisfaction of knowing 
that he had at least sent one cowardly “blue coat” to 
his long home, and then proceeded to narrate the par- 
ticulars. “I was out one morning,” he said, “’tween 
the lines on a little foragin’ excursion, when I ran 
suddenly on a yankee engaged in the same kind o’ 
work. When he saw me he took to his heels, as any of 
’em would ’ave done, for they wer’ better at that kind 
o’ work than any other. But I sent an ounce ball 
after him, an’ as good luck would have it, I hit him 
som’ers bout the back o’ the neck, an’ fetched him to 
the ground, an’ here’s his revolver,” said he, pointing 
with an air of triumph to the pistol which hung at his 
side, “that I took from his carcass, for I knowed he 
hadn’t used it to no advantage while he was livin’, 
an’ that it wouldn’t do him no good in death.” 

A flush mantled English’s face, and he half-way 
arose from his chair, while he grasped the breech of 
his own revolver; which movement Ivey did not be- 
hold, for he sat with his back to English while ad- 
dressing Jerusha in the words which we have just 
recorded. This demonstration on the part of English 
caused Jerusha to start up in fear, which seemed to 


68 Out from under Ccesar^s Frown. 

remind English of what he was doing, for he dropped 
back into his chair and quickly assumed his natural, 
disinterested expression. Ivey supposed Jerusha’s 
fright to have been produced by what he esteemed to 
be the narration of a deed of bravery, but all the 
glory which he imagined encircled the bloody piece 
of warfare was dissipated when Jerusha, quietly re- 
suming her composure, remarked in a sw^eet, offended 
tone: “And surely you did not shoot him in tlie back 
as he ran for his life ? ” 

It was a happy thrust; for it put a quietus on 
Ivey’s boasting, and calmed the storm, to some ex- 
tent, that was brewing in English’s heart. 

The conversajtion, therefore, somewhat lulled, and 
the silence gave Micajah’s widow, Elvina Grant, who 
had been a silent listener, an opportunity to declare 
that it was “well-nigh onto time for to go to bed,” 
for she affirmed that “ such chat ’bout dead folks will 
fetch that liFnt back to the cliffs, and goodness knows,” 
she said, “I don’t want to see it no more, even if I 
thought, as some people ’lows it is, it wer’ the sperit 
of Mica j ah.” And then, dropping her voice to a lower 
and more melancholy tone, she said: “’Tan’t no good 
sign nohow for sperits to be prowlin ’round one’s 
house, for Jemima Grigsby said how that it was a 
token of powerful cornin’ troubles; and Jemima ought 
to know, for if she can’t see into the future there is 
no fortune teller that can; for she’s told me lots o’ 
things that’s come onmistakably to pass.” 

This bit of superstitious surmise had been born of 
what Elvina had witnessed in Edward English’s de- 
portment during the repetition of Dick Ivey’s little 
piece of single-handed warfare. The weird specula- 


69 


Dick Ivey's Incipiervt Courtship. 

tions of the old fortune-teller whom Elvina had con- 
sulted were well-nigh thoroughly confirmed in her 
mind, and she now looked forward almost every mo- 
ment to a sad realization of some awful sorrow. But 
this allusion to the “ ha’nt ” and the black-art, together 
with J erusha’s rebuke, had completely silenced Dick’s 
battery; for he was by no means free from supersti- 
tition himself. So he sat moodily nursing his mis- 
givings and disappointment until the little party of 
males sought their beds in a little back room. 

Never before, perhaps, in all the history of the past 
had old Caesar frowned down upon and nursed in his 
rocky lap a more confused medley of disturbing 
thoughts than on that long-remembered night. The 
wind howled about the little cabin as if it were angry 
with the inmates ; the branches of the overlapping trees 
creaked and groaned as if they were bewailing the 
death of some dearest friend; great skirts of black 
clouds swept over the pallid face of the moon and 
across The Dismal as if they were hurrying away from 
some awful scene; the keen flash of the lightning lit 
up ever and anon the rugged, flinty features of old Cae- 
sar’s frowning countenance; the thunder pealed forth 
in awful, crashing volumes, until the echo from hun- 
dreds of granite crags made it appear that battery after 
battery of heavy artillery were belching death from 
scores of rocky forts. Amid this, the wildest of nat- 
ure’s diversions, there appeared on the crag of gran- 
ite overhanging the little cabin the mysterious old 
cliff-walker. The storm gathered up his long white 
beard and hoary locks together with the loose folds 
of his long white robe and swept them to one side, 
as the wind sweeps the smoke from the chimney tops. 


70 


Out from under Ccesar^s Frown, 

Amid this wild confusion the figure lifted up its voice 
in trumpet-like tones which mingled with the clash of 
thunders: “Hark! hark! my ward! Let not the thun- 
ders of God’s wrath affright thee! Crave not the pal- 
try wealth of this world; seek not other men’s gold, 
but invest thy gettings in souls, and then thou shalt 
carry it with thee into the world that is to come, and 
verily thou shalt be delivered from the furious blasts 
that already sweep over my soul! Hark! hark! my 
ward! ” 

And then, amid the roar of the storm, the inmates 
of the little cabin heard the trumpet-like tones die 
away among the cliffs whither the strange figure had 
withdrawn. 

While the scene we have just described was trans- 
piring the deportment of those within the cabin was 
serious, as well as amusing. Jerusha Grant and her 
mother had not yet retired. They sat before the broad 
fire-place and looked at each other in silence and blank 
amazement. Tom and Edward occupied the same bed 
in the little back room ; and the latter, resting his head 
on his hand and elbow, was in listening attitude; while 
Tom, who had not lost all of his superstition, crouched 
close to the side of his bedfellow. While Dick, who 
occupied the same room with them, when the first 
utterances of the mysterious figure had been heard, 
somewhat timidly raised himself in the bed and asked: 
“ Is that the ha’nt ? ” On receiving an affirmative an- 
swer, he rolled himself head and ears in the heavy 
home-woven blankets, and lay until morning as still 
as death. 

So the night passed away, and the earliest fiash of 
dawn found the inmates of the little cabin astir en- 


71 


Dick Ivey's Incipient Courtship. 

gaged with the chores. Jerusha had just started with 
a large pail to the spring, which was some distance 
down the mountain side, when she was joined by Dick, 
who rejoiced at the opportunity of thus having a few 
minutes of private conversation with the fair belle of 
The Dismal. He took the empty pail from her hand, 
and began very creditably to himself to assume the 
part of the gallant. 

■ “ Miss ’Eusha,” said he, by way of introducing the 
conversation, “did you hear that ha’nt las’ night?” 

“ Yes, I did,” replied the fair damsel, “ and I must 
confess that its loud voice and mysterious presence 
are any thing but pleasant to me.’’^ 

“ You are mighty right,” declared the illiterate sol- 
dier, glad apparently that he had some one to sympa- 
thize with him in his feelings toward this strange 
phenomenon. “ I have faced shot and shell, but you 
may hang Dick Ivey if you ever ketch him spendin’ 
another night in these parts.” 

J erusha intimated that she by no means craved to 
, his executioner, but that she was truly sorry that 
his stay with them had been made so unpleasant and 
that she hoped, should he ever change his mind, his 
next visit would not be disturbed by the hoary old 
clift-walker. 

The reply somewhat confused Dick, but his embar- 
rassment lasted but a moment, after which he replied: 
‘ Miss ’Eusha, I hope I’ll never be hung, but if I was, 
I tell you that there’s no being on yearth that I’d 
ruther have ter hang me as you; but I b’lieve you’ve 
’bout captur’d me anyhow. Miss ’Eusha, an’ I hope 
you won’t hang your prisoner or treat him like the 
yankees treat them.” 


72 Out from under Ccesar^s Frown. 

Jeruslia joined Dick in a langh over this purposely 
facetious remark, and replied that he spoke enigmas, 
“for,” said she, “you have just affirmed that I might 
hang you if you ever paid us another visit, and now 
you claim to be my prisoner; how is that?” 

“Be that as it may,” said Dick, “there’s but one 
thing that’ll ever fetch me back to your house.” 

“ Why, I’m really sorry, Mr. Ivey, that you have so 
little regard for us; but may I be so bold as to ask 
what that one thing is? ” asked Jerusha, with that mis- 
chievous but sweet twinkle of the eye so common to 
her sex on such occasions. 

“It’s thess my^love for you. Miss ’Busha,” an- 
swered Dick, somewhat confused at his positive con- 
fession. 

The beautiful girl blushed and thanked him for his 
interest in her, and was then disposed, woman-li^e, 
after having caused him to confess what she knew was 
in his heart, to remain silent. All women are more 
or less coquettish, and this is the soul of courtship. 
Jerusha realized that the conversation had reach . 
its climax along that line; and having obtained an 
avowal of Dick’s esteem, was not willing to lead him 
any farther for fear that their somewhat frivolous 
conversation might be made by Dick to assume a 
more serious phase. 

But the gallant and attentive visitor soon broke the 
oppressive silence with another expression of his ab- 
horrence for the “ ha’nt.” Said he, continuing this line 
of conversation: “ Miss ’Busha, ef I wus you, I’d not 
live here an’ have that speret a-bawlin’ like a cow- 
critter right over my head tell the jist an’ bo’rds rat- 
tles thess like an ole cyart. Ther’ an’t no needcessity 


73 


Dick Ivey^s Incipient Courtship. 

fur you ter ’ave your years a-riiigiii’ with the owdacious 
bawlin’ ov that onyearthly creatur’ beca’se I’ve got a 
good house on yon side ov the Dismal an’ thur an’t 
nobody ter he’p me look atter it, an’ I thess am 
obleeged ter ax- you ter come an’ be — ” 

Jerusha anticipated what he was about to say, and, 
heartily repenting of her coquettish deportment, con- 
travened the completion of the sentence by interject- 
ing: “O Mr. Ivey, what if the ghost were to visit 
your house some night when you are alone? ” 

Dick by no means relished this expert ruse so com- 
mon with Jerusha’s sex in annihilating those questions 
which they do not want to answer or to hear. But he 
replied with a shudder: “ Ef it wus to come. I’m ’feard 
I’d be wuss skeered than I was last night; Miss ’Busha, 
I wus that beyant myself that I fully ’lowed he was 
a-cornin’ down the chimbly, an’ I thess covered my face 
with the headin’ [ pillow ] an’ wished fur day. Why sich 
bawlin’ would a-teched up ole Billy Bangs hisself, an’ 
he wa’n’t afeard ov nothin’; why he’d a fit Sampson 
hisse’f ef he’d a toted fa’r an’ would a jes’ give up the 
jaw-bone o’ that mule. But ef, as you ’spo" i wus 
ter come to my house. I’d thess blow t^' ate outen 
hit with powder an’ ball, providin’ its ^oh an’ blood; 
but that an’t here nor yan, on yand oide o’ The Dis- 
mal ther’ an’t no place for a speret ter hide, an’ hit 
can’t dim’ on a rock right over my house an’ bawl 
like a yearlin’ ’bout milkin’ time; hit’ll find hidin’- 
places mighty sca’ce round about them parts.” 

“ But spirits may go anywhere,” said Jerusha, ‘‘and 
they do not need hiding-places.” 

“ But, Miss ’Busha, ther’s no denyin’ that ther’s a 
power o’ hants in them rocks ’bove your house,” Dick 


74 


Out from under Ccesar Frown. 

replied. “ Hit’s a master-place fur ’em, an’ e£ I was you 
I’d be miglity glad ter git a chance ter leave these 
parts. An’ ef hit ever comes ter my house, hit’ll ketch 
powder an’ ball; an’, as I wus goin’ ter say back yan- 
der, ef you’ll thess — ” 

“ But,” quickly retorted Jerusha, glad of an oppor- 
tunity to thwart the designs of her would-be suitor, 
“Mr. Ivey, ghosts are not like yankees; they never 
turn their backs upon us, but always present a bold 
front.” The beautiful girl tempered the pungent 
thrust with a merry laugh and a winning toss of her 
curled hair, that hung in such rich profusion about 
her shapely shoulders. 

Despite this ruse, however, of woman’s beguiling 
art, Dick felt the retort too keenly to have replied in a 
moment, if circumstances had permitted, for they had 
just reached the threshold of the little cabin as Jeru- 
sha concluded her sentence. But when he placed the 
bucket of water upon the crude shelf and when Je- 
rusha bestowed upon him a sweet smile and uttered 
a soft “Thank you!” in recognition of his kind serv- 
ices, i, made ample atonement for the keen dart 
of sarcasm '^hich she had just hurled through his 
heart. 

Ah! men are k > more stupid of the two sexes, and 
they construe every sweet smile and every soft utter- 
ance of a beautiful woman into evidences of a deep 
regard for them. If all women are more or less co- 
quettish, all men are, in some measure, conceited. 
Dick Ivey fully believed that Jerusha Grant loved him 
and that only womanly modesty kept her from a frank 
confession of it. When, therefore, he took his leave 
of the family, it was with the determination to renew 


75 


Dick Ivey’s Incipient Courtship, 

his suit at some future day. He resolved, however, 
that his visits to the isolated family should be made 
only in the day-time, lest he should again be dis- 
turbed by the apparition of the clifPs. And so he did 
become quite a frequent visitor to the little cabin in 
Caesar’s lap. 


CHAPTEE VIII. 

Flying Arrows from Cupid’s Bow. 

A FEW weeks had passed away since Dick Ivey’s 
last visit to the Grants, but during the interim 
his thoughts had frequently recurred to the queenly 
belle of The Dismal. Indeed, much of his time was 
consumed in planning this last visit to the little cab- 
in in Caesar’s shadow. A beautiful Sabbath morning 
at last dawned, and Dick was up early in order to ex- 
* ecute his cherished hopes. 

The arrangement of his toilet was quite an item, 
for the great* civil struggle through which the States 
were passing at that time had so paralyzed every de- 
partment of production, as well as manufacture, as to 
affect even the secluded coves of the mountains, so 
that there was not only great scarcity of material for 
clothing; but also a great lack of facilities for man- 
ufacturing it. In addition to this, it. must be re- 
membered that Dick was a lonely bachelor. There 
was not a woman within the bounds of his little plan- 
tation to look after his necessities relative to proper 
clothing, but he had become somewhat of a launderer 
during the years he had spent in the army, and really 
many expedients had been learned in camp life. 
Therefore, with these helps which he had acquired, 
together with the old adage, ‘‘ necessity is the mother 
of invention,” he finally made himself presentable, at 
least in mountain circles. 

An ample application of suet to his coarse cowhide 

( 76 ) 


77 


Flying Arrows from Cupid’ s' Bow, 

boots bad in some measure atoned for the lack of 
that almost or quite obsolescent article, at that time, 
blacking. 

In rummaging through the effects of his silent 
chamber, Dick had come across an old suit of blue 
broadcloth, the wedding suit in all probability of 
some well to do ancestor. The pants were tights in 
the truest sense of that term, but after much tugging 
he succeeded in getting his muscular limbs- on the in- 
side of the antiquated trousers. They were a trifle 
too short even in Dick’s estimation, and his feet had 
never appeared so much like the pedestals of a giant 
before, but the well-preserved and glossy fabric of 
his pantaloons made ample amends for all the other 
defects and lack of correlation, at least in the wearer’s 
estimation. The defect in the length of the trousers, 
however, was concealed by thrusting them into his 
long boot-legs; and to give a somewhat martial ap- 
pearance to his person, for he prided himself on hav- 
ing been a soldier, he fastened his large cavalry 
spur to the heel of one boot, and thrust the barrel of 
the large silver-mounted revolver into the leg of the 
other, letting the breech protrude so as to attract at- 
tention. Both of these instruments of bloodshed 
were intended on this occasion to be merely orna- 
mental; for he meant to perform the visit on foot, 
and the pistol was indeed a useless thing in the quiet 
and secluded recess of The Dismal. 

The coat was a trifle too small, and was of anti- 
quated, claw-hammer style, but there was one conso- 
lation to the wearer: it was perhaps the only broad- 
cloth coat in The Dismal. A large black silk neck-tie 
such as were worn by our great-grandfathers was 


78 Out from under Ccesar^s Frown. 

carefully wound around his neck. It served at least 
one purpose: to hide any laundry defects in his shirt 
and collar. 

The next item that gave Dick unusual concern was 
a hat to correspond with his dress suit. The little 
army cap as he adjusted it before the diminutive mir- 
ror looked so much out of accord with the other arti- 
cles of his toilet that he was not a little perplexed. 
He peremptorily declined, however, to wear it, and 
instituted immediately search for something more in 
keeping with his other articles of attire. His search 
was rewarded with an old silk beaver browned by 
age and somewhat pressed out of its original shape, 
but in Dick’s estimation it was a wonderful improve- 
ment on the old greasy military cap. Thus attired 
he set out for the cabin in The Dismal. 

As he passed along the tortuous mountain road the 
children of the mountaineers gathered in the doors of 
the humble huts and gazed upon him in blank amaze- 
ment and profound admiration. Dick felt highly ex- 
alted in being thus the center of attraction of every 
group of flaxen-haired urchins. 

While he was in this self-congratulatory mood he 
passed through a deep forest, and when he had about 
reached the center of it, a saucy little gray squirrel 
waved its bushy tail, as it sat upon the limb of a 
large hickory tree and chattered merrily at him. 

“Ah! ” soliloquized Dick, “it thess an’t any use for 
’Rush a Grant to try to keep frum likin’ a feller that 
even the squir’ls praises. I’ll thess take her by storm 
this mornin’, like ole Gineral Joe used to ’sprise the 
yanks. Tell you, ole Johnson was a trump.” Thus 
concluding his little speech ‘ of self-commendation, 


79 


Flying Arrows from Cupid^s Bow. 

and comparison of himself with one among the great- 
est of Southern generals, and for whom he had a pro- 
found admiration, he stopped by the way-side and 
plucked from the crevices of the rocks a few plume- 
like ferns and tucked them under the band of his an- 
tiquated beaver with the whispered remark: “I’ll 
give ’em to ’Eusha, for they’ll as good as tell her that 
I’ve been a-thinkin’ of her along the way.” 

Again he hurried forward with rapid strides, till 
he came to where a little path led off from the main 
road. Here he stood for several moments, as if seri- 
ously meditating which way would be the best to 
take. Then he spoke to himself: “Let me see! yes, 
this path goes up by ole Granny Grigsby’s house, an’ 

I b’l’eve I’ll go by, for they say she’s powerful know- 
in’ in courtin’ matters, and I’ll thess walk by an’ see 
what she’ll say as I pass, for they say you can’t go by 
’thout her seein’ you.” 

Therefore, suiting his actions to his words, he 
turned into the little pathway and walked rapidly 
along till he reached a point opposite the old dame’s' 
cabin. The furious barking of a little fice brought 
the old woman to the door. She looked at Dick for 
a few moments in blank astonishment, and then ex- 
claimed: “If it han’t Dick Ivey, all dressed up in a 
suit of them fureigner’s clothes he’s been a-fightin’, 
you may burn me for a witcli! Han’t it?” 

Dick was evidently nettled somewhat by the old 
woman’s allusion to his clothes, for it just then oc- 
curred to him that his suit was really blue; he there- 
fore drew his form up to its greatest height and re- 
plied: “You are mighty right. Granny Grigsby, ’bout 
its bein’ Dick Ivey, but it an’t ther clothes I’ve got 


80- Out from under Ccesar^s Froicn. 

on. Them an’t made in the same style as mine, nur of 
as fine material. How do yon come on?” 

“Thess middlin’, Dick. I han’t never well, but 
that an’t here nur yon. Whur in the yearth are you 
makin’ for? Won’t you come in an’ set awhile with 
a body?” 

“An’t got time,” said Dick as he moved off. 

“Ah! ther’s some ’oman a-knockin’ at the door o’ 
your heart, Dick Ivey, an’ if you’ll thess talk right, 
them fureign clothes’ll win her,” replied the old 
woman as Dick moved away. 

“If there an’t nobody in the way,” laughingly re- 
sponded Dick as he looked back over his shoulder. 
Then he mumbled: “I’m afeard the ole ’oman’s 
prophecy has already come to pass, an’ that fureign 
clothes, or leastwise that fureigner has won ’Rusha 
’fore now. AVish my clothes wer’n’t blue, any way.” 

In a little while, however, Dick was at the place of 
his destination, and the pleasant reception that was 
given him by the Grants caused him to forget, for 
the time at least, the color of his suit. His grotesque 
attire would have provoked laughter and criticism 
anywhere else perhaps, except in such dark mountain 
recesses as The Dismal. Edward English was thor- 
oughly amused, but he controlled his risible nature 
with the acerbity of a stoic; but even his invidual- 
istic stoicism was very nearly overcome when Elvina 
Grant, who associated every thing in some way or 
other with Micajah, innocently remarked, in com- 
menting on Dick’s suit: “I took him to be Micijah’s 
ha’nt when I saw him cornin’ up the path toward 
the house. An’,” said she addressing the visitor, 
“you looked thess like the pictur' of the ole man 


81 


Flying Arrows from Cupid^s Bow. 

when he were young, and used to come a-courtin’ 
over in Transylvania. Them were powerful happy 
days, Dick, an’ you needn’t feel ’shamed of bein’ 
’pared to Mica j ah, for he was thess as good-lookin’ a 
man as ever trod The Dismal.” 

“ Quite a compliment, Mr. Ivey,” quickly responded 
English, “but you will pardon Tom and myself for 
competing with you for the prize of good looks.” 

This remark provoked a laugh, and gave its au- 
thor an opportunity to give vent to the pent-up risi- 
ble forces that were aroused by Elvina’s ghostly com- 
parison. 

“Well, that wern’t sayin’ that other people are not 
good-lookin,’ too,” said the matronly widow; “but 
ther’s one thing Dick’s got the best of you all in, an’ 
that’s his nice clothes.” 

To this English conceded, and remarked that he 
was alvrays partial to their color. 

Such personal remarks would have done great vio- 
lence to good breeding anywhere else, but they were 
in strict harmony with the customs and manners of 
The Dismal. Dick Ivey did not exactly relish, how- 
ever, the idea of being compared to a “ ha’nt; ” neither 
was English’s expression relative to the color of his 
clothes at all palatable; but he congratulated himself 
with the thought that Elvina Grant, at least, would be 
favorable to his mission, as he reminded her of her 
husband in his palmiest days. 

An opportunity soon presented itself, however, for 
Dick to deliver the ferns which he had plucked from 
the wayside. English and Tom Grant strolled out 
into The Dismal, and Jerusha and her visitor were 
left alone; for Elvina busied herself with the poultry 
6 


82 


Out from under Cmsar^s Fromi. 

in the sunny barn-yard; for it was not often that the 
sun peeped through the lofty crags and lit up the 
yard with his warm kisses; and when he did, it was 
only for a little while at a time. Therefore the kind 
widow could not afford to miss his pleasant visita- 
tions. 

“ Here’s some ferns I fetch you, Miss ’Rusha,” said 
he, as he plucked them from his hat band and placed 
them in the hand of the fair maiden. 

“Thank you,” said Jerusha, in a sweet voice, as she 
took them from his' hand and placed them on the 
crude mantel in a handsomely carved wooden vase 
that Edward English had whittled out of some richly 
colored specimen of mountain maple. 

“I’m glad you were so considerate of my passion 
for ferns,” she said. “I think they are very pretty; 
and don’t you think this is a beautiful vase?” she 
added, as she lifted the little piece of art from its 
place and h&nded it to Dick Ivey for inspection. “ It 
is a present to me from Mr. English.” 

Dick came , very near letting the vase drop to the 
floor as the last sentence escaped Jerusha’ s lips. Was 
it really true that English’s artistic workmanship had 
captured his ferns? The thought flashed through 
his heart pungent as the thrust of a Damascene blade; 
but his will assumed the mastery of his anger, and he 
coldly expressed admiration for the genius displayed 
in carving the designs upon the vase. 

“ But,” said he, “ Miss ’Rusha, them yankees ruther 
do such work as that than fight fur ther country.” 
Then, as they resumed their seats, he remarked, draw- 
ing his chair nearer Jerusha: “I b’lieve Ed English 
is a yankee deserter, for he’s thess like jthem fellers 


Flying Arrows from CupicVs Bow. 83 

we’ve been fightin’, an’ I’ll bet lie’s after no good in 
these parts.” 

Jeruslia’s face colored when she heard her friend 
thus accused and suspected, and she replied with an- 
imation: “ I don’t know, Mr. Ivey, whether or not Mr. 
English is what you charge him with being, but I do 
know that he has been a very dear friend to us; I 
may even say that he has been our preserver when 
there was none to help us.” 

‘‘O! ” said Ivey, observing his mistake, and feeling 
keenly the unpleasant trend which his untimely re- 
marl; had given to the conversation, “I don’t mean 
that he mayn’t be a good man, an’ that he has not 
been a friend to you uns; but then. Miss ’Kusha, you 
wouldn’t fall in love with a man you don’t know 
nothin’ ’bout, when ther’s men that’s font for your 
country that’s got a good home for you, an’ that 
you’ve knowed all your life, would you?” 

“Why, Mr. Ivey,” said Jerusha with an air of sur- 
prise, and much amused at the apologetic tone of 
Ivey’s reply, “ I did not mean to make the impression 
that I am in love with any one, for I am not; but I 
appreciate any act of friendship, even if it be nothing 
more than plucking a few ferns for me from the rocks 
along the roadside.” Then, becoming more serious, 
she said: “ Mr. English has been a real friend to us. 
He has helped us to improve our little stock of learn- 
ing, and has, I may say, almost supported us for two 
years; and I cannot forget or undervalue his services.” 

“ I’ll be a better friend to you. Miss ’Kusha, than 
any other man’s ever been; an’, while I an’t got 
much lamin’, I’ve got what’s better — a good home; 
an’ that’s mor’n Ed English has got for you. An’, 


84 Out from under Cmar 's Frown. 

to make a long matter sliort, I thess come over this 
morniii’ to tell you how much I love you, an’ to ask 
you to be mine.” 

Jerusha’s cheeks were covered with blushes, and 
she became the personification of confusion. It was 
her first experience in such matters— at least, when 
they had assumed such a serious phase. It is true 
that she had suspected Dick Ivey’s high esteem for 
her from what had occurred during previous visits; 
but, notwithstanding the surmises on her part which 
resulted from those little episodes already recorded, 
she was by no means prepared for Dick Ivey’s sud- 
den declaration and pointed question. 

Eegaining her self-possession in a measure, she 
gave the impetuous lover to understand that she had 
not so much as given a moment’s thought to so se- 
rious a step; and that really she could not say that 
his ardent affection for her met with any feeling of 
reciprocation on her part. 

The somewhat indifferent reply thoroughly vexed 
the ardent suitor; and though Jerusha, touched with 
something like a feeling of pity for him, begged him 
not to press her with so serious a question, and to 
continue his present friendly relationship with her, 
he left her side with the assertion: “Ed English 
shall never marry you, ’Rusha Grant; an’ if that’s 
why you refuse me, he’ll pay for it.” 

The unpleasant termination of the ardent lover’s 
visit, coupled as it was with a threat against the dear- 
est friend that the beautiful girl had ever known, 
threw a shadow across her pathway, which may ere- 
long assume darker hues, and envelop her young life 
like a pall of death. 


CHAPTEE IX. 
Micajah Grant’s Misfortune. 



E are not responsible for what our ancestors have 


ifV done, but they are frequently to blame largely 
for our environments, which often determine our deeds 
and which more frequently circumscribe our useful- 
ness in this life. It is a fearful thought, nevertheless, 
true, that all the force of our lives is swept irresisti- 
bly along into the future and takes tangible forms and 
positive shapes in real living beings. It is in this 
sense that God visits “ the iniquity of the fathers upon 
the children unto the third and fourth generation of 
them that hate him.” The consequences of crime in- 
evitably follow the posterity of the criminal in some 
shape or other, and we have a pointed illustration of 
this truth in the history of the Grant family. 

One looking upon the wild scenes of The Dismal, 
thinking of its isolation, the privations and hardships 
■which a habitation within its dark and secluded 
depths would necessarily create, would naturally in- 
quire as to what inducement could have possibly pre- 
vailed upon any one to have caused the selection of 
such a place for rearing therein that sacred place 
called home. 

The truth forces us to record, unwillingly it may 
be, this bit of family history relative to the ancestors 
of our heroine, Jerusha Grant. Nathaniel Grant, the 
progenitor of the Grant family in The Dismal, lived, 
prior to the Eevolutionary War, in what was known 


( 85 ) 


86 


Out f rom under Cmsar ’s Froivn. 

as the “Welsh Neck Grant” lying on both sides of 
the Great Pedee Biver and covering that beautiful 
tract of country now known as Marlboro, Marion, 
and Darlington Counties. He was honored and re- 
spected as one of the best citizens of that community 
of hardy Welsh settlers. But when the United Col- 
onies broke off their allegiance with England, Nathan- 
iel Grant conscientiously espoused the cause of the 
mother country, and was henceforth regarded as a Tory 
and therefore an enemy to the provincial government 
of his adopted State and country. There are in this 
life great decisive crises, which either make or ruin 
men, and Nathaniel Grant’s choice and subsequent 
actions determined the environments and secluded 
home of his descendants. ' 

In the great struggles of our revolutionary sires 
there were many dark and fearful tragedies growing, 
necessarily, out of existing feuds and internal dissen- 
tions. A noted Whig named Hawthorne, who lived 
during the Bevolutionary War in the upper portion 
of what is now known as Marion County and whose 
estate joined the lands of Nathaniel Grant, had, prior 
to the war of American independence, an angry dis- 
pute with his neighbor. Grant, relative to the bound- 
ary lines of the adjoining plantations. The matter 
was referred to arbitration for settlement, for in that 
day there were few, if any, courts held outside of 
Charleston; and Nathaniel Grant, who was not over- 
sanguine of the success of his cause, bribed the third 
man on the committee of arbitration, who held the 
balance of power so to express it, and therefore won 
the contested claim. He had strengthened his cause 
by utilizing the rascality of another, as well as by be- 


Micajah Grant Misfortune, 


87 


coming a criminal himself. He had therefore injured 
materially his neighbor, Hawthorne, ‘and very natu- 
rally became his deadly enemy from that day hence- 
forth, for in order to hate one we need only do that 
one a deed of gross injustice. 

During the war which succeeded this event, Haw- 
thorne’s property was plundered and he was cruelly 
murdered by a party of seven Tories led by Nathan- 
iel Grant.* 

After the perpetration of this cruel crime, Haw- 
thorne’s son declared that he would be revenged by 
slaying five of the perpetrators. He solemnly “took 
a vow that he would not -sleep on a bed or eat at a 
table till he had killed five of the seven. He pursued 
them for years and followed one or more of them to 
Tennessee, and is said actually to have fulfilled his 
Vow to the letter.” 

Nathaniel Grant was therefore one of the two who 
escaped the vengeance of the pursuing son, and he did 
so by hiding himself away in the solitudes of The 
Dismal. After the war was over, the property, landed 
and personal, of Nathaniel Grant was confiscated; 
thus he was made penniless and a fugitive primarily 
by his greed for a few acres of land and the crime to 
which he stooped to obtain it. So man is more fre- 
quently responsible for the misfortunes that overtake 
him and the crushing trials that sweep down upon 
him than he is always free to admit. And it is often 
amazing to look upon the long catalogues of crime and 
disaster that spring from comparatively little things 
and indifferent acts. 

In the picture before us we behold one century lit- 


* “ History of the Old Clieraws,” pag 9. 




88 Out from under Ccesar Frown. 

erally packed with ignorance, hardships, superstition, 
deprivations, and all the long catalogue of suffering 
and sorrows incident to an isolated existence in the 
most benighted of mountain coves. Three genera- 
tions of the Grant family had indeed reaped the bit- 
ter results of the nefarious deeds of their fugitive an- 
cestor. Yerily life is a responsible trust; and it is a 
trust designed for investment, and assuredly it is in- 
vested in some way or other by every individual, who 
reaches the years of accountability, and frequently, 
alas! in disobedience to God and criminally against 
the fruit of our own loins. • 

Life! what pen is capable of recording its vast pos'- 
sibilities as it relates to others! Mythological history 
has its beautiful lessons, which find apt applications 
in the lives of men everywhere. Take, for illustra- 
tion, the legend of the beautiful little cabinet of gold 
that was stored away in the temple of Apollo at Bab- 
ylon. It lay there for years in its little niche and did 
no one any harm or any good, but O what ^ magazine 
of death it really was, if we may credit mythologic 
history. The rude hand of a soldier, one hardened 
in crime, tore away one day as he passed through the 
temple the closely fitting lid, and from that little 
golden chest there came forth such pestilence that at 
first infected the Parthenians and then spread through 
the adjoining provinces, thence sweeping with disease 
and death in its trail on and on till one-third of the 
inhabitants of the world were destroyed. How much 
like the little magazines of possibilities stored away 
in the human soul! Dare any rude hand of violence 
tear them open? If so, there is no wonder that he 
is accursed. 


Micajah Granted Misfortune, 89 

Well has good old Elihu Bnrritt declared: “No 
human being can come into this world without in- 
creasing or diminishing the sum total of human hap- 
piness, not only of the present but of every subsequent 
age of humanity. No one can detach himself from 
this connection. There is no sequestered spot in the 
universe, no dark niche along the disc of non-exist- 
ence, to which he can retreat from his relations to 
others.” The sunlight of eternity will indeed reveal 
our finger-marks upon the characters of many whom 
we never saw in this life. 

A dispute over a few paltry acres, a bribe, a cruel 
hatred cherished from day to day in the heart, blood- 
shed and violence, and then a century’s existence in 
the darkness of almost a living tomb for his descend- 
ants! Such were the fatal mistakes and the retribu- 
tive consequences of Nathaniel Grant’s life. 

Then frown thy bitterest, insatiate watcher of thy 
dismal realms, cast thy dark shadows across the lone- 
ly cove, war and bloodshed, covetousness and pride, 
rapine and plunder, prejudice and hate, selfishness 
^ and disobedience have been thy friends 1 But remem- 
ber, granite - helmeted warrior, that the time will 
come when swords shall be beaten into priming-hooks, 
when nations shall learn war no more, and when 
Christ shall redeem even thy vassals and break off thy 
dominion forever and ever ! 


CHAPTEB X. 

Dick Ivey Consults the Foetune-teller. 

TEMIMA GEIGSBY’S bouse was almost on the 
U direct road leading from Elvina Grant’s cabin to 
Dick Ivey’s little farm. The fact that Dick bad 
really been unable to pass ber bouse without being 
observed, on tbe morning of tbe day in wbicb tbe 
events of wbicb we write transpired, together with 
tbe old dame’s assertion, “Ab! tber’s some ’oman 
a-knockin’ at tbe door of your heart, Dick Ivey,” 
when be had declined ber hospitable invitation to 
“come in an’ set awhile with a body” — that occur- 
rence, her prediction, and ber general reputation for 
foretelling future events, bad been burned into the 
very soul of tbe disappointed lover; and as be plod- 
ded bis way homeward in tbe evening of that event- 
ful day, with tbe fires of jealous hatred consuming 
bis heart, be determined to call by and consult tbe 
old fortune-teller as to tbe fate that should overtake 
him, relative to tbe matter wbicb bad, only half an 
hour ago terminated so unsatisfactorily to him. 

Having reached tbe little cabin, be knocked for ad- 
mission, and was answered by a voice from within: 
“ Tbess push open the door an’ walk in, providin’ you 
an’t no enemy.” 

Dick obeyed tbe command, and entered tbe bumble 
apartment. It was occupied only by Jemima, a fice, 
and a large yellow cat. Tbe old woman sat lean- 
ing over a few coals that smoldered in tbe broad 
( 90 ) 


91 


Dick Ivey Consults the Fortune-teller, 

fire-place, while the cat and dog each shared a place 
on the hearth at the lonely old dame’s feet. The lit- 
tle hut was tidily kept, and every thing within pre- 
sented a neat and cleanly appearance. 

When Dick stepped through the open door, and 
across the narrow apartment to the hearth-stone 
where the lonely occupant of the cabin sat, she arose 
and, after passing the usual salutations, motioned 
the visitor to u chair. The little dog growled furi- 
ously at the intruder; while the cat, frightened either 
at Dick’s antique appearance or the fierce snarls of 
the fice, scampered away to a place of concealment 
in the rear portion of the room. 

“ Begone, Snap! ” sharply commanded the old wom- 
an; ^-'the man’s not goin’ to bother us.” Then, turn- 
ing to Dick Ivey, she said: ‘‘Three’s a lucky number, 
but a fourth fetches trouble. I know of a place in 
this settlement wher’ ther’s bound to be a sight of 
botherment, beca’se ther’s a stranger took up his lodg- 
in’ with a family of three.” 

This utterance, born apparently of the disturbance 
among her pets by the entrance of the visitor, but 
more directly of her hatred for English, who ridi- 
culed her pretensions, was very readily conceived 
and applied by Dick Ivey, as it was designed that it 
should be by the old impostrix. 

Dick’s hatred for the Northerner was intensified by 
the old fortune-teller’s declaration, while it was in- 
strumental also in augmenting his embarrassment. 
The thought of being in the presence of one who 
could penetrate the future and read the secrets of 
human hearts was enough to bewilder the supersti- 
tious visitor. 


92 


Out from under Ccesar’s Frown, 

The old dame quickly perceived the confusion of 
her guest, and immediately informed him that an 
unseen power had told her that he was in great 
trouble and perplexity, and that a beautiful woman 
was “the cause of his sufferings. 

It wus enough. Whatever misgivings or doubt 
Dick Ivey may have cherished relative to her art 
were dissipated by the apt guess, and he vras now 
prepared to receive* and act upon any instruction the 
old impostrix might give him, never dreaming for 
once that he had carried the information which he 
had received photographed on his very countenance 
and stereotyped in his very deportment. 

“ Let’s see your han’, Dick Ivey,” she said, as she 
adjusted a pair of old spectacles, and grasped nerv- 
ously the hand of the arm in which Dick had been 
wounded, and which had not thoroughly healed. A 
dart of pain shot through his body; and the wuunded 
man, with a yell that made the cabin tremble from 
rafter to foundation, squatted writhing to the floor. 
The little flee, no longer courageous enough to hold 
its position at its mistress’s feet, drew its caudal ap- 
pendage between its miniature limbs, and with a yell 
that did credit, at least so far as shrillness is involved, 
to the canine family, sought concealment with the cat 
under the lonely old dame’s bed in the extreme lower 
end of the building, whence tremulous whines issued 
so long as Dick remained upon the old fortune-teller’s 
premises. 

Jemima Grigsby was not a little startled herself by 
this unusual demonstration in her quiet home; and, 
thinking that Dick had fainted from some cause or 
other, she dashed the contents of a pail of cold water 


93 


Dick Ivey Consults the Fortune-teller, 

into his face and over his body. This was too much 
for t^he superstitious inquirer at the shrine of the 
black art, and he arose from the floor saturated and 
chilled by the icy fluid; and his clinched fist, togeth- 
er with his firmly set features, told too plainly that it 
was fortunate for once that Jemima was a woman. 

Equilibrium was at last restored, however, by the 
old dame’s apology and Ivey’s explanation; but it 
may not be amiss to say that the reconciliation did 
not reach the two denizens of that home which had 
taken refuge under the bed, and that it was not till 
the small hours of night brought perfect silence that 
they dared to venture from their hiding-place. 

Again the old fortune-teller took hold of his hand, 
making sure of the sound one this time, and as she 
traced the lines in the open palm she said: “I see an 
enemy ’tween you an’ the one you love. You’ll have 
to get him out of the way ’fore you can claim her 
heart an’ han’. If you succeed in that, I see no rea- 
son why your lives mayn’t be full of happiness for 
both of you; an’ ” — 

“That’s ’nough,” said Dick enthusiastically, as he 
withdrew his hand, and turned around preparatory 
to leaving the little hut. 

“Hold,” cried the old impostrix, fearing that her 
visitor was not satisfied; “I can tell you mor’n 
that.” 

“ Not now,” replied Dick; “ I’ll come again.” 

Thus the poor deluded wretch stepped out from 
under the old dame’s roof, thoroughly impressed with 
the fact that she could not only look into the myste- 
rious future, but could also read the secrets locked up 
in the deep recesses of the human heart; and, strange 


94 Out from under Ccesar^s Frown. 

to say, it never for once occurred to the poor deceived 
man, as he revolved the matter in his mind, that he 
had himself uttered, only a few hours prior to the in- 
cident which we have just recorded, the identical 
words to which he had. listened with such intense in- 
terest as they fell from the lips of the old fortune- 
teller, and which so thoroughly impressed him with 
her magic power. 

The credulity of the human race in matters bor-^ 
dering on the ridiculous and absurd is really amaz- 
ing. No less a person than Charles II., when about 
to flee his kingdom, consulted by a female agent an 
astrologer, to ascertain where he should seek refuge. 
Again, it is affirmed that Mary Stuart consulted the 
fortune-tellers of France on more occasions than one 
during her sadly romantic history; and the Bible in- 
forms us that even Saul consulted the witch of Endor. 
Dick Ivey was not, therefore, alone in this absurd 
work of folly. These instances show to what trans- 
cendant depths the soul of man, unfortified by a prop- 
er conception of divine truth, is capable of sinking. 

Ivey had proceeded but a short distance after he 
left Jemima Grigsby’s when he stopped almost in the 
identical spot where he had stood that very morning, 
but the subject of contemplation with him now as he 
stands just where the path came into the great thor- 
oughfare that wound itself around the great mountain 
that overshadowed the Dismal and thence leading 
away into the great columns of rock and earth that 
looked like pillars supporting the sky, was very dif- 
ferent from that of his morning meditation. The sun 
had sunk behind the western hills; and his globular 
form, which only a few moments ago hung in the 


95 


Dick Ivey Consults the Fortune-teller. 

horizon like a great blood-shot eye, was no longer vis- 
ible, but his last lingering glances still crowned the 
highest peaks with a flood-tide of mellow, golden light 
Dick Ivey stood motionless amid a hundred peaks, 
whose crests gleamed like torches while the great blue 
reflector above them gathered up these last rays of 
light and ejected them into the valleys round about. 
It seemed that the day-king, through the co-operation 
of lofty mountains and the sky, was endeavoring, 
kindly, to illuminate the path of any belated creature. 
But Dick Ivey stood unmoved by the splendid scene. 
He was too deeply engaged in thought to notice any 
thing. His lips moved, and he soliloquized: “ Yes, 
he’s a deserter, an’ I’ll git the people ter help me drive 
him from The Dismal; an’ if he’ll not go, we’ll hang 
him,to the limb of some tree an’ let the vultures eat 
his flesh, an — ” 

The sentence was not completed, but was arrested 
by the clattering footsteps of the steed of an approach- 
ing horseman. Dick was startled almost at the noise 
that had dared to disturb his meditation. He looked 
up the road whence came the sound, and beheld a man 
dressed in a gray uniform approaching him, and his 
heart thrilled with joy at the prospect of meeting again 
a Confederate soldier. ‘‘Ah! ” said he in suppressed 
tones, “ may be he’ll help me in my work.” 

Dick had scarcely finished the utterance when the 
horseman reined up his steed, saluted him, and asked 
with a smile wreathing his countenance ( whether it 
was natural or provoked by Dick’s costume, we will 
not affirm) : “ Will you be kind enough, sir, to tell me 
where a Confederate soldier could probably secure 
lodging for the night?” 


96 Out from under Ccesar Frown, 

‘‘ There an’t many places ’bout here,” said Dick, as 
he looked leisurely about him, “ but I guess if you 
an’t much particular ’bout your quarters, an’ bein’ 
that you’re a soldier like myself an’ ’pear to be a good- 
natur’d fellow, you can bunk with me down the road 
a piece, providin’ you can put up with a bachelor, 
who an’t got nobody to cook for him.” 

The traveler bowed politely at the close of Dick’s 
somewhat lengthy reply, thanked him for his kind- 
ness, and, accepting his hospitality, in company with 
his prospective host moved off down the road. When 
they reached Ivey’s home, the obliging host stabled 
and fed the traveler’s horse, exchanged his antique 
suit for one of modern style, cooked a meal, and the 
two men sat down to the humble repast apparently in 
the most cheerful mood. What transpired is reserved 
for the next chapter. 




OHAPTEE XL 
Twice Waened. 



ICK lYEY was rapidly approaching a terrible 


LJ crisis, and again a merciful Providence was about 
to lift its warning voice. From the lips of a fellow- 
soldier, drawn nearer to him, therefore, on that ac- 
count, and wielding a greater influence over him than 
a man of any other profession, he was now to hear 
pronounced his awful doom if he persisted in pursu- 
ing the trend of mind which gave shape to all his ac- 


tions. 


When the guest and host took their places at the 
table to partake of the humble meal which Ivey had 
prepared, the visitor asked permission to invoke God’s 
blessing upon them, and his entertainer, of course, as- 
sented; but the trivial incident was a death-blow to 
all of his conjectures .and anticipations, for he had 
hoped that his guest, a soldier as he was, would be 
available to him, and also favorable in laying some 
plan and to the execution of it, by which Edward En- 
glish could be driven from the Dismal or pay the pen- 
alty for daring to remain within its vicinity. But 
when the Confederate soldier lifted his voice to God 
in praise and thanksgiving for the blessings with 
which his heavenly Father had crowned the humble 
board, all of Ivey’s cherished hopes were dissipated, 
for he knew that his guest’s religious proclivities 
would not permit him to take part in the work which 
the liost desired so much to see accomplished. 


7 


( 97 ) 


98 Out from under Caesar's Frown, 

However, Dick Ivay hoped to at least secure the 
sympathy of the soldier, if not his active co-operation 
in his anticipated work, hence when the meal was fin- 
ished and they had drawn their chairs around the 
^cheerily crackling fire, he opened the conversation by 
asserting that he believed it to be the duty of all 
Southern men to uncompromisingly put to death any 
Northern man who dared to come upon Southern ter- 
ritory. , 

“ O no, my dear sir,” said his guest, as he drew his 
pipe from his lips and thoughtfully curled the smoke 
toward the blazing fire. “ That would be very wrong, 
and then, my friend, we are being driven before the 
invaders like chaff before the wind, and there is no 
help for us but to make the best terms with our con- 
querors we can, and — ” 

“I don’t mean that we can keep ’em back,” ex- 
claimed Ivey, interrupting the speaker, “fur the ras- 
tle with ’em is ’bout over an’ times is mighty jubous; 
but when we find one of ’em by hisse’f we can make 
’im bite the dust.” 

“But that would be murder,” said the guest with 
much emphasis, “ and God would hold us accountable 
for shedding the blood of our fellow-creatures.” 

“ They’re bound ter giv’ we uns a power o’ interrup- 
tion; them blue coat’s as sassy as pompered cow- 
brutes, an’ when they re’ch these here parts they’ll 
scatter over the whole face ov the yearth, a-s’archin’ 
fur what’s lef ’ ; an’ ther’ an’t no law agin killin a b’ar 
fur breakin’ inter yer gyarden a-s’archin’ fur yer bee- 
gums, is ther’? ” 

“A bear and a man are two very different things, 
Mr. Ivey,” said the guest, “and if the enemy does 


Tivice Warned. 


99 


wrong, we must never forget that two wrongs can 
never make a right; so we must make the best of our 
defeat and trust in God. I am persuaded that the 
enemy will not be as cruel as some people anticipate.” 

“ They’ll be a heap wuss’n they’re' recommended to 
be, fur I’ve fit ’em face to face. When they come, 
they’ll be thess like a bealin’ [swelling]^ for bealin’s 
never does come at the right time nur at the right 
place. You could pick a better place thess a half’n 
inch from where they comes ev’ry time, an’ ther’ an’t 
no time that’s fitten fur ’em. They’ll be as sly as deer 
a-mossin’ in the river at night, an’ I’ll tell you now I’ll 
not take nothin’ f’om none ov ’em. I’ll thess up with 
this ’volver an’ blow the life outen ’em.” 

The guest smiled at these ridiculous comparisons 
and bombastic threats, and ventured to remind the 
speaker that the course which he intended to pursue 
might be equally as well executed by the other party, 
“for you must remember, Mr. Ivey, that they out- 
number us, and that we will be powerless in their 
hands.” 

“ Ther’s one up in The Dismal now,” replied Ivey, 
“ an’ he’s thess b’en a-hidin’ up yander in them rocks 
like a wolf that’s s’ archin’ fur pompered sheep. I 
seed ’im ter-day, an’ as shore’s yer pap’s a man, he 
an’t atter no good in these parts.” 

“Why, he is very reckless,” said the guest with a 
degree of surprise that a Union soldier should drift 
so far ahead of the army; “you must be mistaken. 
How long has he been there? ” 

“ Nigh on ter three years,” said Dick, “ an’ he’s pow- 
erful knowin’, too. He’s thess as lamed as ole Solo- 
mon hisse’f, an’ as tricky as a skew-bald boss. Ther’ 


100 Out f rom under Coesar 's Frown. 

aii’t b’en no res’ £nr the people ov this deestric’ sence 
he drapt down thar f’om som’ers, I don’t know whur. 
But he’s fotch a sight o’ trouble inter The Dismal, 
shore’s yer mammy’s a ’oman. He’s fotch a powei* o’ 
ha’nts to them yander rocks that’s stickin’ outen this 
side o’ the mountain. When ther’ comes a hurricane, 
the ha’nt’s shore ter bawl like a cow critter a smell- 
in’ blood. I’ve hearn it myse’f. It thess steps f’om 
p’int to p’int on ’em big rocks on yan mountain like a 
wood-pecker a-huntin’ o’ worms, an’ ther’ an’t no 
chance ter re’ch its hidin’ -place.” 

“ That is remarkable,” said the guest, “ surely there 
must be some mistake about this matter of which 
you speak. I cannot see why a Northern soldier 
would come to The Dismal and spend nearly three 
years there unless he is a criminal evading justice; 
and if this were true, how is he connected with the 
strange appearance that you speak of as stepping 
from crag to crag. Does the yankee of which you 
speak hide in the cliffs ? ” 

“ Ther’ an’t no mistake ’bout its bein’ thess» as I 
said, beca’se I’ve hearn an’ seed what I’m a-talkin’ 
’bout. The yankee’s name is Ed English, an’ I’ve 
talked with ’im many a time. Why, mon, I’ve seed 
’im ter day! He lives with ’Yiny Grant fernent [op- 
posite] the Peacock’s pictur’, an’ right at the bottom 
ov the mountain on yan side o’ the valley. He’s done 
kunjer’d the family, an’ they’re mighty frien’ly with 
’im. He knows every yerb from one eend o’ the dee- 
tric’ ter the furder, an’ endurin’ the time he’s b’en 
thar’ he’s cuord more ailments than I ever mind bear- 
in’ of bein’ doctered afore. An’ when he kunjers up 
that ha’nt the very yearth trimbles when it bawls like 


Twice Warned, 


101 


a crock when it thunders. He’s fotch sights o’ trouble 
an’ botherment, an’ ther’s bound ter be a heap o’ corn- 
in’ interruption fur the people o’ The Dismal ef he 
an’t put outen the way ’fore long. He ought ter bite 
the dust, an’ I’m ready to help in the work.” 

“ There is some explanation, my friend,” said the 
guest, “for whatever mystery may hang over thejnan 
of whom you speak. Let him alone, and dare not im- 
bue your hands in his blood.” 

The answer of the clergyman — for he was a chap- 
lain returning to his home from the now demoralized 
Southern army — completely dispirited Ivey as to any 
hope of sympathy or any thing of that kind he may 
have’ cherished. Thus foiled and disappointed in 
his hopes and expectations, he sat for awhile va- 
cantly gazing into the fire; and then, as if startled by 
a new idea, he abruptly addressed his guest: “ I b’l’eve 
ther’s people that can tell you what’s cornin’ to pass, 
an’ that can tell what’s in a body’s mind, an’ that 
what they say is bound to come true; for ther’s a 
’oman that lives near here that’s told me lots o’ things 
that nobody ever knowed but me. What’s your idee 
’bout sech people?” 

The minister was amused, as well as mortified, at 
the question and statement of his host. He was a 
good judge of human nature, and kne^v that there was 
something weighing heavily upon the poor man’s 
soul; and determined if possible to dispel the dis- 
quietude that w^as evidently preying upon the super- 
stitious man’s heart. Therefore, in answer to the inter- 
rogation addressed to him, he said: “You have asked 
me a question, my friend, in which much is involved. 
There is in man’s mental composition what may be 


102 Out f rom under Ccesar's Frown. 

termed the faith faculty, and it must have some ob- 
ject upon which to rest itself, and if» it does not find 
that which God has given — Christ the Saviour — it is 
liable^ like the unkept vine, to trail along the earth 
and climb any object that presents itself. In this 
fact alone we have one of the most forcible argu- 
ments of the necessity of a divine revelation, and 
nothing laying claim to the supernatural should for 
one moment engage our attention that is not clearly 
defined by that revelation. Because when the faith 
faculty is once torn away from that stay, the very de- 
mands of this component element of the soul are lia- 
ble to lead him into any and every species of error 
from which may result crimes of the most serious 
nature. Therefore when I tell you that I believe in 
Christ, that excludes belief in spiritualism and every 
species of necromantic presumption.” 

The preacher’s observation was no doubt prompted 
by the Spirit of God, for his cogent reasoning reached 
the very heart of the difficulty that was crushing out 
Dick Ivey’s life; his faith, no less than his affection, 
was struggling for some stay upon which it might 
support itself, and was it not an insult to human in- 
telligence that it was really taking hold of the un- 
gainly conjectures of an old impostrix? But such is 
human life. The soul of man continually seeks for 
something in which to believe, and hence are born 
not only the absurd acts like that under considera- 
tion, but also those sublimer speculations of the su- 
pernatural and unfathomable. Man will grasp when 
once separated from his living Head, like a drowning 
man at straws, any thing to feed the believing soul; 
and his natural predisposition is to seek a spiritual 


Twice Warned. 103 

power superior to himself. Hence all speculation, 
and especially that which borders on the absurd. 

Dick Ivey felt the force of his guest’s declaration, 
but his hate for Edward English, and cruel jealousy, 
kept him from admitting the truth he had heard. 
His very soul was drifting, hence he replied: “I 
don’t b’lieve a man’s ’sponsible fur what other people 
force him to do, faith or no faith in the right object, 
as you say.” 

This declaration was a key in the hand of the min- . 
ister to the real- state of his host’s mind, therefore he 
observed: “ That is a clear demonstration of the truth 
of what I have just said. Christ assumes all respon- 
sibility when we put our trust in him; but the nat- 
ural disposition of man being, as I have just affirmed, 
to place his faith in some object, he is naturally in- 
clined, when it is placed in a wrong thing, to shift the 
responsibility which God has fixed upon him to that 
absurd something upon which his belief has taken 
hold, and thus make shipwreck of that which earth 
nor heaven has any values by which to compute its 
worth: the soul.” 

“Well,” said Ivey, “there’s one thing that’s a mas- 
ter mystery to mq* an’ that’s how an ole ’oman can 
look into your han’ an’ thess tell you the cause o’ all 
your trouble in this life. Now ef you can explain 
that. I’ll be satisfied.” 

“ The trouble lies just here, my friend: You discard 
practically the teaching of God’s word, and your faith 
seeks the mysterious and supernatural not as revealed, 
but as conjectured by yourself. In such a state we 
look beyond ourselves for the wonderful and great; 
but such a disposition, apart from the teaching of 


104 Out f rom under Ccesar's Frown. 

God’s word, is neither wise nor commendable, for 
God has crowded more wonders into the human soul 
as it exists here than will in all probability be placed 
into any one thing in eternity. To illustrate my mean- 
ing, let me affirm that a common center for all tele- 
graphic lines might be established somewhere on the 
surface of this earth. The wires that would then gird 
the earth about in every direction would pass by and 
over many wonderful freaks and scenes of nature. 
They would go through the most magnificent tracts 
of country, flash along the grandest art galleries of 
divine handiwork, climb the sublime heights of the 
loftiest mountains, span the deepest abysses, penetrate 
the gloomiest jungles, arch the most enchanting val- 
leys, and undergird the deep-blue waters of the won- 
der inspiring sea itself. 

“Now suppose, for the sake of illustration, that the 
electric current which leaps along the wires is human 
thought; then it follows, no matter what line it may 
choose, starting from the central office, flashing along 
the wires, taking cognizance of every object along its 
pathway to earth’s remotest bounds, it would meet 
with and chronicle many wonderful things; indeed, 
let thought pass over every wire, and how great the 
sum of wonderful things it would harvest! But there 
is one fact more remarkable and more wonderful than 
the sum of all these things combined; and that is 
that there is one focal point where all these vast pos- 
sibilities meet. Here, indeed, in this central office is 
the supremely wonderful point. Here in this fact 
alone, grasping so many inconceivable possibilities, is 
enough to arouse and thoroughly startle every faculty 
of the soul. And this central office is man. There is 


Twice Warned. 


105 


crowded into liis existence here all the vast and un- 
fathomable possibilities of a world to come, of immor- 
tality inconceivable. I take the liberty, therefore, my 
kind friend, to exhort you to look into your own heart, 
and (^iscover whether or not there are dispositions 
that lead you out along the fearful lines which I have 
indicated; and if you find that there are such tenden- 
cies, crush them at once, and take firm hold upon the 
imperishable, unchangeable, and eternal, as embodied 
in Christ the Saviour.” 

The preacher grew sublimely eloquent as he en- 
deavored to implant in his hearer’s mind the right 
idea and proper conception of life and its eternal 
correlatives; for he readily conceived, from the ab- 
surd, crude, and ridiculous, as well as disconnected 
utterances of his host, that the poor man would soon 
be ingulfed in a perfect whirlpool of trouble, if his 
heterodox impressions were not completely dissi- 
pated. 

Dick Ivey listened with rapt attention to the elo- 
quent exhortation of the divine; and when he had 
concluded his lengthy utterance, the poor deluded 
man heaved a sigh and declared, in tremulous voice, 
that every thing seemed to be against him, and that 
life was a hard lot when every object which was dear 
to the heart was wrested from it by the force of cir- 
cumstances. 

The reply of Dick Ivey showed th^t the truths to 
which he had listened had in some measure found the 
way to his heart not by the words spoken, but by the 
manner in which they were uttered. The voice, so 
full of emotion, told plainly that his confidence was 
at least shaken in those things to which he had so te- 


106 Out f rom under Ccesar's Frown. 

naciously held, and that a degree of penitence^had 
fastened itself upon his guilty soul. 

In this state, halting as it were between two opin- 
ions, the good man took leave of his host on the fol- 
lowing morning, never dreaming for once that in the 
future he would meet face to face with the object of 
Dick Ivey’s bitterest hate, which really prompted the 
host’s desultory conversation during the night which 
had just passed. 

The soldierly preacher threw himself into the sad- 
dle and rode away from the dark shadows of these 
“ everlasting hills,” toward his home in the lowerpor- 
tion of the State, congratulating himself that he had 
endeavored to break off the yoke of bondage that fet- 
tered one poor soul. We shall meet the chaplain 
again. 


CHAPTEE XII. 

#• 

In the Toils of the Murder Demon. 

T he chaplain, Eev. William Dorsey by name, had 
scarcely gotten out of Dick Ivey’s sight before 
the demon of hate and jealousy began to drive his 
fiery darts through the poor man’s heart. 

The disappointed lover sat down upon the door-step 
after having bid adieu to his guest, dropped his face 
into the open palm of his hand, supporting his elbow 
upon his knee, and was soon absorbed in thought. 
His brow was contracted, and the fist of his wounded 
arm was firmly clinched. There was a scowl upon 
his features that grew darker and more repulsive as 
his meditation increased and intensified under the un- 
compromising thrusts of the fiend of bitterest hate. 
The old watch-dog that had faithfully guarded the 
little farm cottage in the days that Dick’s father oc- 
cupied it sat a few paces from his present master’s 
feet, and looked earnestly up into his perplexed and 
troubled face. One would have conjectured, from the 
sober and sympathetic expression that beamed from 
the faithful animal’s eye, that he was troubled for 
his master; and may he not have shared at least the 
sadness that wreathed Ivey’s countenance? 

At last Dick arose, and as he assumed an upright 
position he said between clinched teeth: ‘Hf the won- 
derful’s within, ho that’s fetch me this trouble is 
without, an’ he shall pay for it.” 

The old dog had arisen simultaneously with his 

( 107 ) 


108 Out from under Ccesar’s Froivn. 

master, and still looked beseechingly into his face, 
and as he spoke the faithful mastiff whined piteously. 
The noise attracted the attention of the sorely tried 
man, and he stooped down and gently stroked the old 
dog’s head; and as he did so the brute yelped joyful- 
ly, as if a great burden had been rolled from its 
heart. And w^hat creature does not appreciate kind- 
ness? 

The lonely and tempted man turned- and walked 
into his house, closely followed by the old watch-dog, 
and as he did so he again soliloquized: “Granny 
Grigsby knows mor’n a preacher, an’ I b’lieve I’ll 
risk what she says anyhow.” 

Then taking down from a peg in the wall the hol- 
ster of his pistol, he buckled it around his body; and 
as he did it he said: “He’s nothin’ but a yankee de- 
serter nohow.” Again the dog whined as if he were 
in pain. 

The dog’s behavior almost unnerved the would-be 
murderer. By an association of ideas he thought of his 
dead father and mother. Could it be possible that 
the faithful old watch-dog was taking their place and 
deporting himself as they would were they present on 
that occasion? The superstitious man dropped into 
a chair, and for a few moments he was nearly over- 
come by the thought that flashed through his mind. 
Mastering his emotions, however, he arose from his 
seat, and it was evident that the demon of hate and 
Jemima Grigsby’s insinuating counsel had prevailed. 

Now behold in the picture before us an immortal 
man seeking an outlet for the pent-up forces of the 
soul; and mark how their energies, designed for 
higher and infinitely grander ends, take hold of 


109 


In the Toils of the Murder Demon. 

Dame Grigsby’s impostures. O the depths of the 
degradation and spiritual ignorance of this denizen 
of a mountain cove! And is there no blame at- 
tached to the Church, under the divine command, 
“Go ye into all the world, and preach the gospel 
to every creature ? ” If there is, in what light shall 
they appear before the judgment-throne of Christ 
who have neglected their duty not only to these 
denizens of so-called Christianized lands, but also 
to the masses of heathens who are bound by the 
same galling cords of superstition? 

Scarcely an hour had elapsed from the beginning 
of the scene which we have described when Dick Ivey 
might have been seen directing his steps toward El- 
vina Grant’s little cabin. Having reached its vicini- 
ty, he left the pathway, and began to climb the cliffs 
in the rear of the crude building. 

Only half an hour prior to the time that Dick Ivey 
reached the overhanging rocks Edward English and 
Jerusha Grant had strolled out amid the rich sylvan 
scenes and magnificent natural spectacles that 
crowned the steep declivities in the rear of their se- 
questered cabin. With that solicitude common to 
her sex, when they were seated upon the edge of a 
great mossy rock Jerusha had told her benefactor of 
the little episode between Dick and herself, that had 
transpired the day before the incident which we are 
recording, and with a voice full of emotion she al- 
luded to the threat which the enraged lover had made 
when he left her presence. Edward English had not 
been blind to the fact that Ivey was smitten by the 
enchanting iDeauty of the belle of The Dismal, but he 
had never dreamed that the rough mountaineer cher- 


110 Out from under Ccesar’s Frown, 

ished so bitter a degree of jealous hatred against him 
as to drive his rival to such violent measures; but it 
was so, as the sequel proved. 

Dick Ivey had not proceeded far, when he had 
reached the cliffs, when his ear caught the sound of 
voices, somewhat subdued. He crept noiselessly to 
the edge of the precipice and looked Qver. His eyes 
were greeted with a scene that set his soul aflame 
with the unquenchable fires of jealous hate. 

Jerusha Grant and Edward English were sitting 
upon a large rock. He held her hand, and was look- 
ing down into her blushing face; and just as Dick 
Ivey looked over the precipice Edward encircled her 
beautiful form with his left arm, still holding her 
hand with his right, and, drawing the lovely maiden 
close to his side, imprinted a kiss upon her glowing 
cheek. 

It was more than Dick Ivey could bear. There was 
a flash, a report, and Edward English fell prostrate 
at the feet of Jerusha Grant. She beheld the spout- 
ing blood, and attempted to raise her bleeding lover 
from the ground, when she beheld through the veil of 
mist that was gathering over her eyes, some dark ob- 
ject fall from the precipice above her with a heavy 
thud at her feet. Then her ears were greeted with 
the almost unearthly tones of the old cliff-walker: 
“ Ha! ha! my ward, art thou hurt? ” Then she remem- 
bered no more, having swooned. 

The report of the pistol, together with the shrieks 
of Jerusha, had reached the ears of the inmates of the 
cabin (Tom and Elvina Grant), who hastened with all 
possible speed in the direction whence came the re- 
port. When they reached the spot, they beheld Dick 


Ill 



In the Toils of the Murder Demon, 

Ivey in a sitting posture, dazed and bruised by the 
fall from the cliff — for just as he turned to flee he 
lost his footing and fell — and Jerusha lying in a state 
of unconsciousness. But Edward English was no- 
where to be seen. 

Jerusha was soon restored by applying to her face 
cold water fro^a the stream that murmured at their 
feet; while Ivey, having recovered from his shock, 
was able to walk unsupported. Tom and his mother 
bore the fainting girl to the house, while Dick Ivey 
skulked away they knew not where. When J erusha 
sufficiently recovered from the shock which her 
nerves had sustained, she related the incident as she 
had observed it. But no trace of Edward English 
could anywhere be found. So for days the deepest 
gloom and mystery hung like the curtain of night 
over the home of the Grants. 


CHAPTEE XIII. 

Dick Ivey’s Self-imposed Doom. 

O NE of the saddest features of ]ife is the disastrous 
consequences to which misappliedlbelief and mis- 
directed aspirations lead. The faculty that enables 
us to believe, that divine implantation which capaci- 
tates the human soul foy the reception of the super- 
natural, and therefore for the highest and grandest 
achievements in this life, when prostituted by suffer- 
ing it to take hold of and to entwine itself about that 
which is only material or base and absurd within it- 
self, will pf necessity lead its possessor to drink of 
the bitterest dregs of disappointment and death. 
This heaven-born faculty has but one legitimate use; 
and when turned aside from that supreme end for 
which it was designed, it becomes worse than useless. 
God has beautifully set forth this truth under the im- 
agery of the vine turned aside from its natural use. 
In depicting its utter uselessness under such condi- 
tions, he says: “Shall wood be taken thereof to do 
any work? or will men take a pin of it to hang any 
vessel thereon?” Therefore we are shown its tran- 
scendant unserviceableness for the meanest and most 
insignificant purposes. 

The trees of the forest have their inherent value; 

The sailing pine; the cedar, proud and tall; 

The vine-prop elm ; the poplar, never dry; 

The builder oak, sole king of forests all; 

The aspen, good for staves; the cypress, funeral; 

( 112 ) 


113 


Dich Ivey’s Self-imposed Doom. 

The laurel, meed of mighty conquerors 
And poets sage ; the fir, that weepeth still ; 

The willow, worn of hopeless yjaramours; 

The yew, obedient to the bender’s will; 

The birch, for shafts ; the sallow, for the mill; 

The myrrh, sweet bleeding in the bitter wound ; 

The warlike beech ; the ash, for nothing ill ; 

The fruitful olive; and the plantain round ; 

The carver holm ; the maple, seldom inward sound. 

All these sylvan beauties, like the other faculties of 
the mind, have within them multiplied possibilities 
for good; but this remarkable gift — faith, the vine of 
the human soul — when abused by unlawful prostra- 
tion, is meet only for destruction. 

“Behold, it is cast into the fire for fuel; the fire 
devoureth both the ends of it, and the midst of it is 
burned. Is it meet for any work?” The blessed 
Master, emphasizing this same thought, declared: “If 
a man abide not in me, he is cast forth as a branch, 
and is withered; and men gather them, and cast them 
into the fire, and they are burned.” 

Such indeed is God’s presentation of the awful 
consequences of the prostitution of that faculty which 
alone holds the possibility of linking us to the super- 
natural and'divine. Therefore, in view of these great 
truths, it becomes our painful duty to trace the steps 
of the would-be murderer cf Edward English from 
the bloody scene which v/e have .already described to 
his final decease. 

When he had returned to consciousness, and had 
recovered sufficiently from the shock occasioned by 
the unlucky fall to walk, v/e have already said that he 
hobbled away through the rocky glades, the Grants 
knew not where. He had gone but a little way, how- 
8 


114 Out from under Ccesar Froicn. 

ever, when he reposed his bruised and aching body 
upon a moss-covered sylvan seat, and began to medi- 
tate upon the horrible scene through which he had 
just passed. The unlooked for accident had revealed 
the murderer; of this he was thoroughly conscious; 
and he knew, furthermore, from what his eyes had 
witnessed, prior to the shot which had sent English 
reeling from the rock upon which he was sitting, that 
Jerusha had pledged her heart to the one whom he 
had deliberately shot from ambush. Therefore, he 
was fully persuaded that Jerusha Grant would ever 
hate the murderer of her lover, and that all hope of 
winning her heart and hand was now forever dissi- 
pated. 

There sat the poor crime-stained man, with the 
wreckage — so to express it — of every object in which 
he had put his faith gathering like driftwood about his 
accursed person. He had loved the cause for which he 
had fought, and like many a Southerner of far nobler 
heart now looked upon the last death-throes of truly 
a lost and j^t cause with all the bitterness and an- 
guish that his heart was capable of containing. He 
had just put his trust in the declarations of Dame 
Grigsby, only to behold every hope' dashed to pieces 
within a day after he had left her little cabin. The 
wounded arm, now hurt afresh by the fall, throbbed 
faster and more acutely than ever before; and each 
throb of pain was like a shaft of hate; red hot it ap- 
peared from the forges of the nethermost pit, shot 
through body and soul by an unseen hand. Thus he 
sat writhing in soul and body because of the fatal 
miscarriage of all that he had ever trusted and had 
ever hoped to see succeed. In this agony of soul and 


115 


Dick Ivey Self-imposed Doom, 

body the poor culprit determined to put an end to liis 
existence at once. Reaching, therefore, to his side 
for the only trophy which he had brought forth from 
the bloody scenes of conflict through which he had 
passed, he discovered that the silver-mounted revolv- 
er was gone, and that only the empty holster hung at 
his side. He had even been disarmed by his cruel 
fate. The scowl on his countenance, already gloomy 
with despair and disappointment, was indeed fearful 
to look upon, and made as dark a setting as ever was 
seen to the rich sylvan scene by which he was sur- 
rounded. Thefrantic and forlorn criminal determined 
to return at once to the unfortunate spot, and secure, 
if possible, the instrument by which he could put an 
end to his miserable life; but just as he was about to 
arise to retrace his steps, his ears were greeted by the 
hoarse tones that fell from the lips of the ghost of the 
cliffs: ‘‘Ha! ha! I have found thee, O mine enemy! 
Why hast thou murdered Edward English, O miser- 
able son of Belial? Begone! or thou shalt pay with 
thy life for the crime thou hast committed.” 

These words fell upon the criminal’s ears, amid the 
stillness that prevailed, like a thunder-bolt; and the 
affrighted man, forgetful now even of the pains and 
disappointments that racked body and soul, sprung 
to his feet; and, looking up through the branches of 
the trees which overshadowed him, and in the direc- 
tion whence came the voice, he beheld the white- 
mantled old cliff-walker standing upon an overhang- 
ing crag, flourishing in his hand the very revolver 
which only a little while before had sent a ball through 
Edward English’s body. The extremity of the long 
white beard of the apparition was tinged with blood. 


116 Out from under Ccesar^s Froivn. 

while the, fluttering white mantle which wrapped his 
tall form was literally spotted with human gore. 

The poor wretch who only a moment prior to the 
advent of this mysterious visitor had fully made up 
his mind to send his immortal soul reeling into the 
abode of none other than blood-stained and crime- 
imbued spirits of every degree of wickedness, now 
chartered every spark of energy and every particle of 
strength in his bruised body to bear him away from 
the accursed spot. He swept forward over the rough 
ground and through the tangled undergrowth like a 
deer stung by the hunter’s bullet. On and on he 
went, conscious of nothing but a bloody apparition 
and a desire to reach ‘a place of safety. 

His wild flight was stopped, however, in a very un- 
expected manner. As he entered a deep ravine and 
began its descent he was hailed by a familiar voice: 
“Hello, Dick! what’s the matter, old fellow?” 

Thus accosted, he stopped; and as he turned his 
face in the direction whence came the voice he rec- 
ognized his old ante helium friend, James Hamby. 

“ Shqrely my eyes don’t deceive me,” said Hamby, 
as he approached to where Dick Ivey was standing, 
pale as a corpse from his recent fright, and wlio as 
yet had made no reply to the familiar salutation of his 
friend. “Are the yankees atter you? or have you seed 
the ha’nt?” 

“The ha’nt,” said Dick, gasping for breath. 

The two old friends now stood facing each other; 
and Dick’s bruises and wounds, caused by his pre- 
cipitate fall from the cliff, as well as his intense 
excitement, were clearly perceptible to his old com- 
rade. 


Dick Ivey Self imposed Doom, 117 

“Why, Dick! what’s to pay?” exclaimed the aston- 
ished interlocutor. 

“The ha’nt! the ha’nt, I say, Jim!” replied Ivey, 
becoming somewhat more composed. 

“ Why, Dick, shorely the ha’nt an’t atter blood. I 
didn’t know he dealt in any thing but moonshine and 
white robes; leastwise I an’t hearn of the old moon- 
light stroller liurtin’ anybody ’ceptin^ you.” • 

“O,” said Dick, becoming more collected and some- 
what ashamed of his hasty flight from something that 
had never hurt any one, “ he didn’t bruise me up this 
way. I fell down the cliff, and was knocked beyant 
myse’f ; an’ when I came to myse’f, I missed my ’volv- 
er; an’ when I started back" to hunt it, would you 
b’lieve me, I met the old bundle of hair and beard, 
bloody as a stuck hog, with my pistol in his han’.” 

“My! that was enough to make a fellow run,” ex- 
claimed the deserter, for such he was; “ but wher’ did 
you come from, an’ wher’ are you goin’, old friend? ” 

“I came from v/her’ I fell off o’ the rock, an’ I’m 
goin’ I — I don’t know wher’,” answered Dick. 

“ Th«n come an’ go with me,” said Hamby, as he 
turned and walked back up the deep ravine, followed 
by his old friend whom he had thus chanced to meet. 
He led the way into a carefully concealed dug-out, or 
cave, which he claimed as his dwelling-place, gave 
Dick a drink of corn whisky, which he himself had 
manufactured, and the two old comrades sat down to 
talk over old times. Under the exhilarating effect of 
tlie beverage Dick soon became loquacious, and re- 
hearsed to his old friend all that had happened. The 
deserter listened attentively to all that was related, 
but was unable just then to account for Edward En- 


118 Out from under Ccesar Frown, 

glish’s mysterious disappearance and the part which 
the ghost played in the unfortunate occurrence. The 
two old friends determined, therefore, to remain in 
their place of concealment and await whatever devel- 
opments might take place. 

On the night following these occurrences old Caesar 
nursed in his bowels a medley of pain, anxiety, and 
bitter hate. The following chapter will partially re- 
veal some of these cruel and accursed spectacles. 


CHAPTEE XIV. 

A Look into the Desertee’s Cave. 


HE night following the events recorded in the last 



1 chapter, James Hamby and his guest sat before a 
blazing fire in the deserter’s comfortable cave. The 
red glare of the crackling flames as it was reflected 
from the rocky walls, the external surroundings, the 
secluded depths of the lonesome forest, the great bare 
rocks that jutted out from each side of the deep ravine 
in the side of which the cave was located, over which 
the light from the entrance of their crude apartment 
flickered and waned, making them to assume a thou- 
sand different shapes and shadows, together with the 
melancholy cry of the night-birds and the sepulchral 
tones of the voices of the two men as they sat con- 
versing, made the scene indeed weird and spectral. 

The two men talked, very naturally, about the mys- 
terious disappearance of the body of English and the 
part which the inexplicable and cabalistic old ghost 
of the cliffs played in the tragic affair. 

“ Its powerful strange to me,” said James Hamby, 
an’ since I’ve put my mind on the matter I’ve thess 
come to believe that Ed English is that ha’nt, an’ no- 
body else.” 

“No, ’tan’t him,” Ivey replied with a shudder, “for 
I mind sleepin’ in the same room with him one night 
at ’Vina Grant’s when the old sperit took on awfully, 
while it danced a jig on that big rock that hangs over 
’Villa’s cabin. I was ’feard it was goin’ to jump 


( 119 ) 


120 Out from under Ccesar’s Froivn. 

right down on the top o’ the house an’ tear oi¥ the 
boards an’ come right into the room. Tell you, Jim, 
it was a powerful try in’ time I Ed English was a-ly- 
in’ all the time on his bed a-listenin’ at the old ha’nt’s 
screams, an’ it stan’s to reason, ’cordin’ to my mind, 
that he couldn’t be in two places at the same time.” 

“Thess apt as not a sperit can be in mor’n two 
places at the same time, Dick,” asserted James Ham- 
by as he gulped down a draught of corn whisky and 
passed the decanter to Ivey, who followed his exam- 
ple, “ for it stan’s to reason that Ed English turned 
into the ha’nt thess the very moment you shot him, 
for didn’t he pick up the pistol an’ follow you thess 
as bloody as a stuck hog? ” 

Dick Ivey was almost bewildered by the theory ad- 
vanced by his host, but the stimulating effects of the 
beverage which he had just swallowed soon overcame 
the confusion and stupefaction of his thoroughly de- 
pressed soul, and he ventured to reply: “Yes, does 
look like what you say mus’. be true; an’ if ’tis, Ed 
English’s hot dead.” 

“Dead?” exclaimed Hamby. “Sakes alives, no he 
an’t d^ad, for powder an’ ball can’t kill such as him, 
unless the bullet’s made of silver instead of lead, as I 
have hearn it said.” 

“lYish I’d took the silver off the handle of that 
pistol then an’ molded it into a ballet an’ shot him 
with it,” said Ivey with a sigh. 

“ Why, did your pistol have silver on it? ” .':sked 
Hamby with a degree of surprise plainly depicted on 
his countenance, “ the gover’ment must ’ave got richer, 
for they didn’t have any silver on the arms, ’cept the 
gen’rals, the little time I was in the war. May be 


A Look into the Deserter's Cave. 121 

that’s what makes silver money so sca’ce: old Jeff is 
a-havin’ it put on the guns an’ pistols.” 

“ No, he isn’t,” Ivey affirmed with an air of pride. 
“ I took that pistol from the body of a dead yankee 
that I shot one mornin’, an’ it was a thing of beauty, 
too! thess as fine a weapon as ever burnt gun-powder. 
An’ you may hang me higher than the top o’ this 
mountain,” said he as his brow arched with surprise, 
“ if it didnt have two letters, ‘ E. E.,’ cut into the silver 
on the handle. I never thought that they might stand 
for ‘ Ed English ’ before.” 

The two men looked at each other in amazement. 
The revelation of the probable meaning of the initials 
awed them for awhile into profound silence, and the 
very crackling of the flames in the fire-place seemed 
like an uncouth intrusion on the stillness that pre- 
vailed. 

James Hamby at last broke the predominant quie- 
tude. Looking directly into Ivey’s face, he slowly 
pronounced the letters, “ E. E. — Ed English, shore as 
we’re the sons of a ’oman. Thess as I said, that ha’nt’s 
the sperit of Ed English, and you’ve slept in the room 
with the sperit of the man you killed! ” 

‘‘ That’s a fact,” said Dick Ivey in suppressed tones, 
as he shuddered at the very thought of the idea ad- 
vanced by his friend; and then, dropping the tone of 
his voice to a still lower key, he added: “An’ hunted 
with it too, an’ saw it only a few hours ago a-kissin’ 
’Kusha Grant.’ Pears powerful strange she’s not 
found out he’s a ha’iit.*' 

“He’s kunjured the whole family of ’em,” gravely 
remarked James Hamby, “an it wouldn’t be no big 
s’prise to me if ’Eusha Grant’s a witch herself, for she 


122 Out from under Ccesar ’s Frown. 

don’t talk like other people, an’ wlier’s another ’oman 
.in The Dismal that’s like her? She knows mor’n all 
the world put together, an’ looks thess like an angel 
dressed up in common every-day clothes.” 

Dick Ivey heaved a sigh burdened with disappoint- 
ment and remorse. Mentally he cursed the war, and 
even the glory of his record as a soldier was turned to 
bitterest gall within his throbbing heart. Thought 
after thought flew rapidly through his perplexed soul. 
Was James Hamby right in his assertion? Had he 
been drawn on and on by Jerusha Grant as an accom- 
plice of the spirit of the man whom he had murdered to 
this point of extreme punishment? These thoughts 
and kindred ones shot through the poor man’s brain 
like red-hot darts of steel, and after all there was 
no solution of the enigmas that troubled his soul. 
He could only think of the ghastly, upturned, and 
convulsed countenance of the yankee soldier whom he 
had shot that accursed morning as he foraged between 
the lines of the great crouching columns of blue and 
gray uniformed soldiers. The letters “E. E.” on the 
handle of the captured revolver, together with the 
fact that now came rushing back upon him from the 
well-stored and indestructible chambers of memory 
that there was a striking resemblance between the 
countenance of the murdered soldier and that of Ed- 
ward English. All of these things, with the thought 
of the complete failure to win Jerusha’s affection and 
the total miscarriage of every effort to remove the 
barrier between them, now came rushing back upon 
his soul, and the one supreme result was that his vio- 
lent love for the belle of The Dismal was turned, al- 
most in a moment, into bitterest hatred. 


A Look into the Deserter Cave. 


123 


After these moments of meditation the poor man 
raised his head and replied to James Hamby’s dec- 
laration: “ That’s what I believe now, Jim, an’ I’ll bet 
the whole set of ’em Grants is in league with the sper- 
it of that dead yankee, an’ they ought to be run out 
o’ The Dismal.” 

“That’s thess my ’pinion,” said the deserter, “for I 
for one am mighty tired o’ bearin’ the sperit o’ that 
dead yankee bawlin’ round in these parts like a lost 
cow brute.” 

Again the two friends swallowed large draughts of 
the strong beverage, and thus drowned their guilty 
fears in the intoxicating bowl. 

“A guilty conscience needs no accuser,” This old 
adage was perfectly illustrated in Dick Ivey’s deport- 
ment after the scenes through which we have just 
passed. Notwithstanding the fact that he had per- 
suaded himself that there was no law against killing 
a yankee deserter, and there was really but little en- 
forcement of law, so perilous and distracted were the 
times during those eventful days of ’64 and ’65, yet he 
kept himself well concealed in James Hamby’s seclud- 
ed cave. These twp real cliff-dwellers rarely ventured 
from their hiding-place during the day-time, but they 
made frequent excursions into The Dismal under the 
cover of darkness, and as they came into contact with 
the ignorant and superstitious inhabitants of that dark 
valley they utilized every opportunity to poison their 
minds against the three innocent inmates of Micajah’s 
little cabin. 


CHAPTEE XV. 

The Appaeition. 

M any persons now living in tlie upper part of 
Pickens and Greenville Counties remember a 
peculiar and mysterious old man wlio rambled over 
the above-named territory during the last three years 
of “the war between the States.” His hair was 
long and fell in a silvered mass about his shoulders; 
his long gray beard reached to the abdomen. He 
carried a long, pilgrim-like staff in his hand, a roll of 
blankets strapped about his shoulders, and a small 
oil-cloth sachel hung at his side. Thus equipped he 
wandered from house to house, and treated, when 
permitted*, any diseased person he found within the 
compass of his circuits. He was therefore familiarly 
known as “ the old root doctor,” because from the lit- 
tle sachel at his side he was always able to bring forth 
some root or herb that was, as he claimed, a sure spe- 
cific and remedy for any ailment to which humanity 
is heir. 

He slept, for the most part, out-of-doors, rolling 
himself in his blankets and storing himself away for 
the night under some bush or hedge wherever dark- 
ness overtook him. He appeared to be simply an ec- 
centric old tramp wandering from point to point with- 
out any affinities for any special section of the United 
States or any love for that sacred spot which most 
men call home. 

This peculiar old man styled himself Doctor Heal- 
( 124 ) 


125 


The Apimvition. 

all, and on that account, as well as other things, was 
generally looked upon by the intelligent people of the 
country as an imposter trying to cover up his real 
name and mission. He was regarded, by many peo- 
ple, indeed, as a spy in the employment of the United 
States government to ascertain the real strength and 
home resources of the Confederate States. Many 
were the theories advanced to explain his existence in 
that portion of the country. Most people, however, 
looked upon him as an innocent old crank upon the 
subject of the medical virtue of roots and herbs, and 
therefore he was permitted to roam unmolested over 
the country. 

This roaming old herbalist, however, had a history, 
which it is necessary to rehearse in order to a proper 
appreciation of the life and character of Edward En- 
glish. 

Prior to the late war. Doctor Healall, whose real 
name was William Crookshanks, lived in the State of 
Pennsylvania, and was for many years a steward in 
the Methodist Church at a little country chapel known 
as White Oak Eidge. He was habitually moral, and 
with that exception had no other qualification for so 
important an office in the Church, unlessihe fact that 
he was the richest member of the little fiock gave him, 
as is sometimes the case, the right to exercise the 
functions of that divinely instituted office. 

Many of the older preachers of the Pennsylvania 
Conference can to this day easily call up the scene 
that always took place at White Oak Eidge when they 
filled their appointments at that place. When the 
preacher made his appearance on the hitching-ground 
of the little country chapel, he was always met by 


126 Out from under Ccesar^s Froivn, 

William Crookshanks, who assisted in unharnessing 
the horse, after which he invariably paid him a few 
dollars quarterage. Th^ manner in which this was 
done was amusing, as well as humiliating. The stew- 
ard always began the episode by drawing from the 
side pocket of his coat, the one nearest to his heart, 
a large old greasy leather wallet filled with bank-notes 
and papers and securely tied together in more places 
than one with strings that had been wound around 
and around the old leather money bag till it was made 
doubly secure at every opening. When thus unbound, 
one was impressed that the knife of the butcher and 
the chemicals of the tanner had not quite succeeded 
in extracting all the life from the hide of the dead 
animal from which the skin was taken, for the old 
wallet stretched itself open and one could almost im- 
agine that the sides heaved as if gasping for breath. 
This feat accomplished, the steward thrust his clum- 
sy fingers into one of the pockets, drew forth a coin, 
and placed it in the preacher’s hand slowly and in the 
most deliberate manner, as if it was with the greatest 
reluctance that he parted with the bright little piece 
of silver. Thus the payment was made, piece by 
piece, until the entire amount which had been col- 
lected was handed over. Then the old wallet was 
again subjected to the galling bondage of cords and 
replaced near the steward’s heart. 

This feat having been consummated, the covetous 
old steward walked with the preacher to the door of 
the little chapel with something like a smile of tri- 
umph wreathing his features. It was evident that he 
was congratulating himself that he had so far over- 
come his natural propensity and love for money as to 


127 


The Apparition. 

turn over to its riglitful owner the sum which had 
been committed to his trust by the poorer yet more 
liberal brethren. 

William Crookshanks always paid his own pro rata 
share, as he conceived it to be, at the end of each 
quarter. Four dollars was the amount which he con- 
tributed yearly to the support of the ministry. He 
divided the amount into four equal parts, and paid it 
in the following way: When the Quarterly Confer- 
ence for his charge convened, he was always on the 
.ground in ample time to meet the pastor, as already 
described on other occasions; but instead of giving 
the old wallet a breathing-spell, as at other times, 
he kept it securely bound in its resting-place, and, 
secreting a silver dollar in the palm of his right 
hand, he proceeded to execute his wonderful feat. 
Advancing to the preacher’s side, he extended his 
hand containing the coin, shook hands with his 
much-loved pastor, and thus transferred the dollar 
to the hand of the preacher. This accomplished, 
his business at that important Church meeting was 
finished. 

Some of William Crookshanks’s admirers looked 
upon this eccentric act as an attempt of the steward 
to conceal his charities according to the Bible rule of 
not letting your left hand know what your right hand 
does; but others, who understood the old man’s nig- 
gardly spirit, conceived it, and very justly too, to be 
an attempt to hide his own meanness. And such, in- 
deed, is frequently done on a larger scale by men who 
are really ashamed to let the world know what they 
do for the kingdom of Christ. It is really surprising 
to know that fallen humanity will even sometimes 


128 Out from under Coesar ’s Frown, 

take refuge behind the inspired declarations of God’s 
holy word to conceal the defects of their lives. 

This eccentric old steward was looked upon, uni- 
versally, as being thoroughly honest; and even those 
persons who condemned and abhorred that spirit of 
stinginess which characterized all his financial trans- 
actions, gave him credit for uprightness and honesty. 
Men of more liberal ideas looked upon the narrow- 
ness of the miserly old man with a degree of pity 
which softened their condemnation of his money-lov- 
ing propensities. For William Crookshanks had 
made his wealth by hard strokes, said they, therefore 
he was close and miserly. But covetousness and hon- 
esty are never found to exist in the same heart. One 
necessarily excludes the other. Therefore men, for- 
getful of this fact, frequently give niggardly men 
credit for being at least honest. 

So the covetous man, while he was not by any 
means loved or admired, became really the banker and 
broker for the little community. If poorer men had 
a little surplus cash, they always put it into his hands 
for safe-keeping; and if men were pressed financially, 
they could always secure money to relieve their em- 
barrassment by giving him good security and a hand- 
some interest. Therefore, it is easy 'to see how his 
financial connections with the people, together with 
the fact of his great wealth, secured to him, notwith- 
standing his insatiate love for money, a greater degree 
of respect than was accorded to ^tny other citizen in 
the whole community. Money will give any thing in 
the shape of a man the respect of almost any commu- 
nity. It is a sad fact; nevertheless it is true. 

But inspired truth teaches that ‘‘none of us liveth 


The Apparition. 


129 


to himself, and no man dieth to himself,” therefore 
the life of one who had been successful financially was 
bound to impress itself upon the little community of 
which he was the chief individual. And this is in 
strict accord with the great principle which the great 
apostle to the Gentiles has laid dowm in the eighth 
chapter of his first Epistle to the Church at Corinth : 
“ For,” says he, speaking of a comparatively indiffer- 
ent matter, “ if any man see thee which hast knowl- 
edge sit at meat in the idol’s temple, shall not the 
conscience of him which is weak be emboldened to 
eat those things which are offered to idols; and 
through thy knowledge shall the weak brother perish, 
for whom Christ died? ” 

Therefore, when it is asserted that the entire com- 
munity of White Oak Ridge became so intensely im- 
bued with a spirit .of individualism, through the tui- 
tion of this miserly old steward, that all active and 
every shadow of progressive Christianity died, it is 
not by any means a statement that evokes surprise. 
Almost any person may call to mind such a picture 
of decay and death as actually having transpired 
within the range of his observation. 

White Oak Ridge became, therefore, what is termed 
in Methodist preachers’ nomenclature short grass, and 
the minister who was read out for that work always 
felt afflicted, and the covetous old steward was indi- 
vidually responsible for the just reputation which the 
charge- sustained among the ministers for narrow- 
heartedness and niggardliness. The whole commu- 
nity was, furthermore, as much under the doom of 
heaven as ever the wicked cities of the plain; for it 
is a great mistake to suppose that divine judgments 
9 


130 Out from under Ceesar^s Frown. 

are confined to only a few isolated and extreme cases 
dotting the vista of the indestructible past at inter- 
vals of a few thousand centuries. They continually 
occur, and it is only necessary to attain a plain of ex- 
perience and Christian culture above the causes which 
produce them to behold the real portrayal of these 
awful visitations. Of course it is perfectly natural 
and reasonable that the sufferers are not able to see 
that they are worse than other men or that their mis- 
fortunes are the results of their criminality, for the 
most absolute blindness is an inseparable character- 
istic of sin. That God’s curse rests in special severity 
upon the sin of covetousness is a revealed fact, and 
that his visitations will sooner or later come upon the 
devotee at the shrine of Mammon is so clearly photo- 
graphed upon the pages of Holy Writ that he who 
runs may read it: “ Woe unto thern that join house to 
house, that lay field to fields till there he no place, that 
they may be placed alone in the midst of the earth!” 
“ In mine ears, said the Lord of hosts, of a truth 
many houses shall be desolate, even great and fair, 
without inhabitant.” (Isa. v. 8, 9.) 

Such, indeed, had been the prosperity of William 
Crookshanks that he had not only added house to 
house and land to land, but much of his wealth, and 
of that of which he was a trustee, was invested in the 

railroad and in a magnificent line of steamers 

which plowed the blue waters of the Chesapeake, 
and also in many paying public enterprises in the 
city of Philadelphia. 

But amid all of this prosperity, he and his neigh- 
bors had forgotten that “ the earth is the Lord’s, and 
the fullness thereof,” and year after year the servants 


131 


The Apparition. 

of the Lord had gone, with much foreboding, to the 
little chapel at White Oak Eidge only to witness the 
stinted breathing-spells of the old leather wallet and 
the eccentric meanness of the wealthy old steward and 
his well-trained brethren. Many a depressed Meth- 
odist preacher went up to Conference year after year 
from that, hard field of labor minus the Lord’s rent, 
and was forcibly reminded of that parable wherein it 
is declared: “A certain man planted a vineyard, and 
set a hedge about it, and digged a place for the wine- 
fat, and built a tower, and let it out to husbandmen, 
and went into a far country. And at the season he 
sent to the husbandmen a servant, that he might re- 
ceive from the husbandmen of the fruit of the vine- 
yard. And they caught him, and beat him, and sent 
him away empty. And again he sent unto them an- 
other servant; and at him they cast stones, and 
wounded him in the head, and sent him away shame- 
fully handled. “And again he sent another; and him 
they killed, and many others; beating some, and kill- 
ing some. Having yet therefore one son, his well 
beloved, he sent him also last unto them, saying. They 
will reverence my son. But those husbandmen said 
among themselves. This is the heir; come, let us kill 
him, and the inheritance shall be ours. And they took 
him, and killed him, and cast him out of the vineyard. 
What shall therefore the lord of the vineyard do? 
He will come and destroy the husbandmen, and will 
give the vineyard unto others.” (Mark xii. 1-9.) 

Header, think not that the great principle here il- 
lustrated refers only to the Jews, for since God is no 
respecter of persons, he is always true to the great 
principles of retributory justice in every age of the 


132 Out from tinder CcBsar’s FrotA)n. ^ 

world. The Son has come. Who will cast him out 
of his own rightful possessions? 

In the last great day with trumpet-like voice he 
shall proclaim from the judgment throne: “ Inasmuch 
as ye did it not unto one of the least of these my 
brethren, ye did it not unto me.” 

As the humble Methodist preacher went away from 
this hard field year after year with these inspired 
truths ringing in his ears, he could not but heave a 
sigh of pity for the dishonest possessors of the Lord’s 
vineyard in that portion of the Conference terri- 
tory. Covetousness and theft and robbery are syn- 
onymous terms Teally, and the preachers could not 
but be forcibly stri^ck when they considered the enor- 
mity of the crime that lay at the door of the little 
chapel, with the long-suffering and forbearance of 
God. As they thus meditated this parable would 
come floating into the mind: “A certain man had a 
fig-tree planted in his vineyard; and he came and 
sought fruit thereon, and found none. Then said he 
unto the dresser of his vineyard: Behold, these three 
years I come seeking fruit on this fig-tree, and find 
none: cut it down; why cumbereth it the ground? 
And he answering, said unto him. Lord, let it alone 
this year also, till I shall dig about it, and dung it: 
and if it bear fruit, well: and if not, then after that 
thou shalt cut it down.” (Luke xiii. 6-9.) 

In all of these utterances the faithful servants of 
God could do naught, else but read the inipending 
doom of the covetous little community, and especial- 
ly of its leader, who was individually responsible for 
the state of affairs that prevailed at White Oak 
Ridge. 


133 


The Apparition. 

Thus things continued to move along this line of 
parsimony and stinginess, until the Conference in its 
session of 1860 appointed a bright, young, fearless 
preacher to this much dreaded work. He entered 
upon his labors for the ecclesiastical year 1860 wit*h a 
determination either to drive this covetous spirit out 
of the little chapel or to drive them from the Church 
which they had so long disgraced. He therefore 
bearded the lion in his den, and his philippics, togeth- 
er with the general political upheaval that pervaded 
the entire country, brought down upon the heads of 
these narrow-minded individualists the long-delayed 
visitation of heaven, and from scenes of wealth the 
old miser of White Oak Kidge passed to the vocation 
already described in the first portion of this chapter. 
Let us therefore trace more minutely in the following 
chapter the providential visitations which led to this 
remarkable change of estates and conditions. 

I 


CHAPTEE XVI. 

The Apparition Continued. 



•HEEE was an unusually large audience at White 


1 Oak Eidge on the first Sunday of the ecclesias- 
tical year 1860. Many had doubtless come, as is us- 
ually the case, to size-up the recent appointee to their 
charge. 

We wish to call attention to two persons in the au- 
dience. One has already been noticed at some length, 
William Crookshanks. The other was one of his 
satellites, George English. The latter’s ancestors had 
emigrated to this country before the Eevolutionary 
War, and had settled in Pennsylvania; thence the pa- 
ternal grandfather of George English had moved, in 
1761, to Welch Neck, on the Pedee Eiver, in what 
was then the province of South Carolina. He secured 
a grant of several hundred acres of land in the lower 
part of what is now known as Marlboro County, ad- 
joining lands already noticed belonging to Nathaniel 
Grant and Hawthorne. He was a very near relative 
of the latter, a maternal uncle. But in a few years 
he became dissatisfied with his wilderness home on 
the banks of the Great Pedee, and returned to his 
old home in Pennsylvania, carrying with him the 
piece of parchment upon which the terms of the grant 
were written. The terms, or conditions, of the grant 
had been violated by the grantee, and of course it 


( 134 ) 


135 


The Ajjparition. 

was of no value as a legal claim, but it bad been care- 
fully preserved as a family relic, and was, at the time 
of which we write, in the hands of George English. 
I merely make this statement here because it is nec- 
essary to throw light upon a portion of the narrative 
yet to be recorded. 

William Crookshanks and George English sat to- 
gether on the front pew of the little chapel. They 
were both official members, each holding the office of 
steward; or rather Crookshanks was the steward^ and 
English was, as already stated, a satellite that revolved 
about the greater body. Crookshanks had for a num- 
ber of years invested all of English’s savings, and 
being the mental superior of the twain, he had so im- 
pressed his friend with his superiority that the little 
sycophant and parasite was so overshadowed by the 
colossal figure of his financial adviser and manager 
that his word was law in all matters. 

The men were very different so far as physical make- 
up was involved. The steward was tall and angular; 
the parasite was small and lean. The former wore a 
heavy beard, while it was evident that the latter had 
determined to pattern the cut of his after that of his 
great adviser as far as the thin, light growth on his 
face would permit. The fact was patent to every one 
that, notwithstanding their great physical difference, 
the inferior aped in walk, bodily carriage, and even 
in the very tones of his voice, his superior. So great, 
indeed, was Crookshanks’s influence over English that 
a mere word from him would even cause the poor par- 
asite to contravene any desire or request of the wife 
of his own bosom, or that of the only son with whom 
God had blessed their union, the individualistic 


136 Ontfrom under Ccesar's Frown. 

Edward already extensively noticed within these 
pages. 

Some years prior to the occasion of which we are 
writing, Edward had imbibed such a thirst for knowl- 
edge that he had insisted on an education superior to 
that which the schools of his community could give 
him. The steward, of course, was consulted. A mere 
word from him convinced the father that a collegiate 
training only made spendthrifts ^nd failures in this 
life. Thus friction was produced between father and 
son, which ended in the latter’s surreptitious departure 
from home. So matters stood at the time of which 
we write, and it has been necessary to make these ap- 
parent digressions in order to make clear the causes 
which led to Crookshgjiks’s change of condition, as al- 
ready described, as well as to make plain an intricate 
piece of family history. 

At the time of which we speak, Edward English 
was a wanderer, and public opinion was somewhat 
bitter against his father on account of his apparent 
unconcern relative to his son’s whereabouts and con- 
dition, and also because of the difficulty between them. 
These facts are mentioned to show the cause of a dis- 
turbance in White Oak Eidge community purported 
to have arisen because of the young divine’s sermon. 
The reader is, therefore, now prepared to appreciate 
the sermon which was delivered upon this the occa- 
sion of the young itinerant’s first visit to White Oak 
Eidge. 

We introduce here an imperfect sketch of that ever 
afterward famous sermon in that covetous-smitten 
community. It was noted for its destructive rather 
than its constructive results. 


The Apparition. 137 

The Sermon That Killed AVhite Oak Eidge. 

“ Thou hast consulted shame t6*tijy house by cutting off many 
people, and hast sinned against thy soul.” (Hab. ii 10.) 

There are many sublime pictures in God’s word. 
Quite a number of paintings are frequently drawn by 
the inspired artists to exhibit the various phases of 
one subject. I want to place on exhibition for your 
inspection to-day some photographs of covetousness 
and its effects on men taken by God’s unerring camera. 
The sin under consideration is a very comprehensive 
one, and in its vast sweep it takes in many men who 
are 'esteemed by the populace as public-spirited and 
in some measure the world’s benefactors. 

Habakkuk’s vision — that is, the picture which God 
showed to him, and of which he was commanded to 
write a perfect description — was of a very progressive, 
public-spirited man. He had built a magnificent city, 
fortified it by great walls, and had perched the cita- 
del, which was a credit to his engineering skill, upon 
the highest point of the city’s site. The people lauded 
his enterprising spirit,, stood in his presence with un- 
covered heads, heaped upon him mausoleums of earth- 
ly honors ; in life his name was on every lip ; in death 
the people said the greatest of men had fallen, and 
they calendared his name on the imperishable bronze 
and the spotless marble. 

But God wrote his obituary on the eternal pages of 
truth: “Woe to him that coveteth an evil covetous- 
ness to his house, that he may set his nest [citadel] 
on high, that he may be delivered from the power of 
evil! Thou hast consulted shame to thy house by 
cutting off many people, and hast sinned against thy 
soul. Bor the stone shall cry out of the wall, and the 


138 


Out from under Ccesar ’s Frown, 

beam out of the timber shall answer it. Woe to him 
that buildeth a town with blood, and establisheth a 
city by iniquity.” (Hab. ii. 9-12. ) 

By way of parenthesis, let me say that a sufiBcient 
number of anti-prohibition municipal politicians, 
mayors, and boards of aldermen, moved primarily by 
covetousness and appetite to grant license, high or low, 
for the sale of intoxicants, that municipal expenses 
may be met, will come at the last day under the 
comprehensive sweep of that last woe to make the 
nethermost world, I had almost said, straitened for 
room. 

A public-spirited, covetous man, he who makes ex- 
penditures to aggrandize himself, he who cherishes 
an insatiable desire for wealth and honor that he may 
be deified by the populace, what does God’s word 
say of him? Ah! if every other witness is dumb, the 
very stones, polished by sharp practice and dressed 
by shrewdest artfulness, and placed in position by 
nicest engineering skill, will cry out from their places 
in the massive w^alls, Blood, blood, blood 1 ” And the 
very beams of the palatial dwelling, his nest, the cit- 
adel of his strength, the pride of his life, the glory of 
his being, shall roll back the awful refrain: “ Woe 
to him that buildeth a town with blood, and establish- 
eth a city by iniquity.” 

Build factories, spin the fleecy staple, and say to 
the world: “Be ye clothed at moderate cost.” Span 
every valley, scale every mountain, penetrate every 
jungle and forest with steel rails and panting engine, 
and thus practically bring the products of the whole 
world to every man’s door. Undergird the deep-blue 
sea with the wonderful cable, and thus flash messages 


139 


The Apparition. 

from continent to continent, from island to island; it 
may bring the people of the earth closer together. Mul- 
tiply commerce, erect for her magnificent depots and 
chambers and custom-houses, plow the foam-crested 
billows with iron steamers, make even a highway there; 
it will enrich the people. Flash brilliant electric lights 
along every street and alley and into every building; 
it proclaims that the world is advancing. Dig reser- 
voirs, build aqueducts, spout the purest water into ev- 
ery home; it will bring with it health and comfort. 
Dot the earth with palatial residences and magnificent 
public buildings, cover their fioors with the pride of 
Brussels; for Adam, even in his pristine purity and 
glory, was commanded to dress and keep the garden 
of Eden. Raise aloft the banner of progress, let the 
pure breezes of heaven fan the ample folds upon which 
are written Enterprise, Push, and Public SpiriV^ 

God made the breeze to unfold such a banner; but 
if back of all this progress there is an unsanctified 
spirit, a desire for earthly emoluments and glory; if 
blood money enters as a component factor, if selfish 
motives constitute 4he motor of progress, then “woe 
to him that coveteth an evil covetousness to his house, 
that he may set his nest on high, that he may be de- 
livered from the power of evil” — that is, from the ap- 
prehended evils of this life, such as poverty, want, 
earthly enemies, and a measure of dependence, even 
upon his fellow-man. 

If the cry of the heathen has been ignored, if the 
wants of the Church have been passed by, if the ban- 
ner of progress has been hoisted to the highest pos- 
sible point, while the blood-stained banner of Christ 
droops at half-mast, then “thou hast consulted shame 


140 Out from under Ccesar's Frown. 

to tliy house by cutting off many people, and hast 
sinned against thy soul.” 

Therefore we see that the punishment and curse 
pronounced against the covetous man are farther 
reaching in their results than merely the immediate 
transgressor, his house, or family is involved. So 
much is directly revealed: “ He that is greedy of gain 
troubleth his. own house.” (Prov. xv. 27.) A great 
many men do not believe that to be true. They think 
that, by putting forth all of their energies that they 
may amass fortunes, even to the neglect of the re- 
quirements of Christianity, they are doing the very 
best thing possible for their children. 

This was doubtless the way Laban thought when 
he imposed upon Jacob, deceived him, and changed 
his wages ten times within twenty years. But in the 
end he had lost parental authority, the love and es- 
teem of his daughters, his household gods, and was 
in turn deceived by the fruit of his own loins. ( Gen. 
xxxi. ) 

Achan in all probability had visions of wealth and 
independence for an impoverished family as he con- 
cealed the garments and golden wedge in his tent; 
but alas! his family reaped with him the fatal results 
of his covetousness. (Josh. vii. 21.) 

Saul no doubt thought that he was enriching his 
sons and daughters when he spared the best of the 
sheep and oxen of the Amalekites (1 Sam. xv. 9), but 
the battle-field on Gilboa’s heights was made immor- 
tal by the wail of disappointments and ruined hopes. 

Ahab doubtless thought himself to be the fairest of 
traders when, under the pressure of covetousness, he 
offered Naboth the best pos.sible price for his little 


141 


The Apparition. 

vine-covered plot of ground; but the awful depths of 
his criminality is seen in his submission to the schem- 
ing Jezebel; and long after the murder of poor Na- 
both and the unlawful seizure of his property (1 Kings 
xxi.), the arrow let fly at a venture (1 Kings xxii, 
34^38) and the cruel fate of the wife and sons of the 
covetous king make the most practical comment con- 
ceivable upon the inspired declaration, “He that is 
greedy of gain troubleth his own house.” 

Gehazi’s little piece of sharp practice, born of cov- 
etousness, brought upon him and his posterity forev- 
er the leprosy of Naaman., (2 Kings v. 27.) 

Is it necessary to multiply illustrations? The Bible 
teems with them. O may God open the eyes of men 
everywhere to the fact that there is no more fearful, 
insidious, subtle, and ruinous sin known to mortals ! 

Let us, before leaving this phase of the subject, look 
at another graphic picture which has been hung up 
by God’s own hands on the walls of the magniflcent 
art gallery of the Old Testament, and which is illus- 
trative of the truth that the covetous man only amasses 
trouble for his own family. (Gen. xiii.) 

On that memorable and great historic spot. Bethel, 
you observe two kinsmen in earnest conversation. 
God had prospered them, and the land was not suffi- 
cient to support their herds. The one is magnani- 
mous and faithful; the other, “greedy of gain.” I 
hear the words of Abraham : “If thou wilt take the left 
hand, then I will go to the right; or if thou depart to the 
right hand, then I wdll go to the left.” I see Lot with 
quick, shrewd glances sweeping the rich plain of J or- 
dan. Behold how the eyes of the young Oriental 
twdnkle with delight as he scans the well- watered val- 


142 Out from wider Ccesar^s Frown, 

ley! He makes liis choice. I see the old patriarch 
and his nephew as they divide their flocks. Mark 
the erect, steady carriage of Abraham as he leads 
away his herds. Honesty and benevolence are writ- 
ten on every lineament of his noble, manly counte- 
nance. The eastern morning sunlight seems to bor- 
row splendor in his pathway from the light reflected 
from his open face. God is with him, and his riches 
increase; but he sets not his heart upon them. T see 
him again and again. God opens heaven, and shows 
the old patriarch at rest. It is enough. 

But behold the quick, nervous stepof Lot. Visions 
of wealth float before his deluded eyes. He even has 
political aspirations, and I see them gratifled. He in- 
creases in wealth and popularity; he dons the royal 
cloak and sits in the gate of the city (Gen. xix. 1), the 
mayor of the cities of the plain. But after he had mar- 
ried his daughters to the most promising young men 
of the city, and after his “ greed of gain” and political 
"Aspirations had in some measure been gratified, I see 
him in the early dawn of morning pleading with his 
sons-in-law; but alas! he had lost all influence over 
those young lords, and “seemed as one that mocked.” 
I hear subterranean thunders; I see pitchy clouds, 
parted by the forked lightning, hover over the devot- 
ed cities; I feel the oppressive stillness that precedes 
the earthquake and awful electric storm. I see Lot, 
the wife, and two daughters hurried from the city by 
angelic hands. The sorrowful, heart-broken mother 
lingers; the married daughters yet remained; the lit- 
tle, prattling grandchildren’, with their tiny, chubby 
hands and dimple cheeks, were pulling at her heart- 
strings; the livid flash of heaven’s artillery plays 


143 


The Aiyparition. 

about her path. There comes a terrific crash, the 
earth belches forth fire, aud the poor, grief-burdened 
mother is transfixed to the spot — a pillar of salt. 

AYould you trace the picture farther? Would you 
follow Lot and his daughters to their place of refuge ? 
Nay, verily. Let the curtain fall; for in truth “he 
that is greedy of gain troubleth his own house; ” 
and thou, O covetous man, “hast consulted shame to 
thy house by cutting off many people, and hast sinned 
against thy soul.” 

Therefore it is observable that the covetous man 
not only cuts “off many people” who might, under a 
proper use of his money, have become jewels in his 
now lost crown of life, and that he not only brings 
shame upon his own house, but he sins against his 
own soul. 

“ For this ye know, that no . . . covetous man, 

who is an idolater, hath any inheritance in the king- 
dom of Christ and of God.” (Eph. v. 5.) 

God cannot save an idolater. Has it ever occurred 
to you that the 07ihj species of sin which Christ did 
not cast out when confronted by it jvas covetousness 
in respectable circles? Have you noticed that the 
only earnest, sincere petitioner that he ever disap- 
pointed vras a covetous man? “And he went away 
grieved, for he had 'great possessions.” (Mark x. 
17-22.) Have you observed that God has not only 
revealed the fact that covetousness is idolatry, but 
actually demonstrated the revealed truth in the case 
of the young ruler? 

One more picture, and I will conclude this discourse. 
Behold the Son of man, accompanied by twelve disci- 
ples, walking over the hills and valleys of Judea. See, 


144 Out from under Caesar^ s Frown. 

they enter a humble home at Bethany, and as they 
recline at meat a woman who had been a great sinner 
glides through the open court and into the apartment 
where the Lord and his disciples are feasting, and, 
breaking an alabaster box of precious ointment, 
poured its contents upon the head and feet of the 
Master. (Matt. xxvi. 6-13; John xii. 1-8.) The dis- 
ciples murmured at this waste of the precious oint- 
ment. Christ gently rebukes them, aud commends 
the act. (See Matthew’s account.) The gentle re- 
buke quiets all but one (see John’s account); and 
that one is the most highly honored of all, as the 
world counts honors, for he is the treasurer. He 
even estimates the worth of the ointment down to 
the small denomination of pence. Ah! when ohe 
keeps books with Christ, he is not far from covetous- 
ness. 

Mark his countenance. The waste of the ointment 
preys upon him night and day. Now behold him, 
having separated himself from the little band that 
looks upon the agonies of Gethsemane, as he cove- 
nants with the august Sanhedrim for thirty pieces of 
silver; hear their click, click, click, as they fall into 
his hand. See, he leads the mob to Gethsemane; 
mark the kiss; listen to the hypocritical utterances of 
his tongue. Ah! he who keeps books with Christ will 
betray Christ. 

But look at him again as he wends his way, under 
the cover of darkness, along the alleys and lanes of the_ 
holy city. See, he starts; he looks this way and 
that. He is pale, his form totters, his eyes are dilat- 
ed, his bosom heaves, his hair stands out, and his 
nostrils are extended from intense grief and remorse. 


145 


The Apparition. 

He makes liis way to the Sanhedrim’s council cham- 
ber, throws down the accursed silver which burns his 
hands like coals of fire at the feet of the council, and 
rushes out into “outer darkness,” a wreck forever and 
ever upon the coasts of hell. 

Christ betrayed by covetousness! Let the curtain 
fall, but let not the Church fail to profit by the awful 
object lesson. 

The sermon was the leading topic of conversation 
during the week which followed the young minister’s 
first visit to White Oak Eidge. Both of the stewards 
were much displeased with the tone of the sermon, 
and their displeasure was augmented by the fact that 
the people generally throughout the neighborhood 
alluded to the discourse as a personal thrust at these 
two leading members of the little Society. For, be- 
sides the difficulty already mentioned between En- 
glish and his son, Crookshanks’s eldest daughter had 
eloped, some years prior to the occasion of ‘which we 
are writing, with a very suspicious character who had 
drifted into the community as a clock-repairer, and 
of whom it was whispered that he had been married 
to several wives then living in various parts of the 
United States. The couple had left for parts un- 
known, and the father had forbidden any member of 
the family to allude to the occurrence or mention the 
name of his disgraced daughter. The sermon, though 
these things were not known by the young preacher, 
was to these two Church officials like probing an old 
sore. The longer they meditated upon and the oft- 
ener they talked with each other about the personal 
attack made upon them by the young preacher the 
10 


146 Out from under CcBsar Frown. 

more incensed they became, till at last, one afternoon 
about a fortnight after the sermon had been deliv- 
ered these two officials concluded, at a private indig- 
nation meeting which they were holding, to withdraw 
their influence, support, and membership from the 
little Society, and to unite with a Society of Friends 
in an adjoining community. 

They imagined that by so doing they would in 
some measure retaliate on the young parson. It is a 
little remarkable that even the most covetous fancy 
that the Church is dependent upon them for support, 
and as these two offended brethren talked over their 
departure or withdrawal from the Society which had 
been indeed well-nigh throttled by their avarice and 
its influence upon the CQmmunity, they fairly gloated 
over the prospect of a ruined, irretrievably ruined. 
Church at White Oak Bidge. 

AYhile thus engaged, sitting in Crookshanks’s piazza 
as they were, they beheld the young preacher making 
his way along the road which passed near the dwell- 
ing. It w'as their opportunity, and they determined 
to use it by breaking the news of their disastrous res- 
olution to the inexperienced young upstart, as they 
characterized the youthful clergyman, and thus bring 
down upon his devoted head the fruits of his own 
folly. So important a conference as that which was 
likely to take place is worthy to be recorded within 
these pages. I have therefore thought it proper to 
give it a place in the following chapter. 


CHAPTEE XVIL 


The Momentous Conference. 

HEEE was a counterfeited tone of friendliness in 



1 William Crookslianks’s voice as lie hailed the 
young minister and invited him into his dwelling, 
notwithstanding the indications of the brewing storm 
which were recorded in the preceding chapter. In 
Christianized lands there is a respect for, or shall we 
say an awe of, the minister, even among the basest, 
that is frequently surprising to witness. It was so 
in this case. George English was lamb-like, and the 
features of his friend’s face had assumed somewhat 
of its Sunday expression. 

As the trio seated themselves in the long, old- 
fashioned piazza, and exchanged a few commonplace 
remarks relative to the weather and the clergyman’s 
recent advent into the community, it was evident that 
the young pastor did not have the slightest anticipa- 
tion of any ill-will toward him existing in the hearts 
of these two official parishioners. 

- But his broad forehead, angular cranial make-up, 
somewhat aquiline nose, deep-blue eyes, high cheek- 
bones, and firmly closed lips all told eloquently of the 
courage, decision, and competency with which he was 
possessed. A consciousness of the preacher’s supe- 
riority on the part of his hosts doubtless made them 
more diffident than they otherwise would have been 
in approaching the subject for which they had stopped 
him. 


( 147 ) 


148 Out from under Ccesar^s Frown. 

But the awful crisis, however, was at last reached. 
Crookshanks nervously cleared his throat, and began 
to launch forth his pent-up thunder-bolts, or at least 
he had imagined that they would be such when an- 
nounced to his pastor. 

‘‘Ahem, ahem ! ” said he, “Brother English and my- 
self called you in to tell you of our determination to 
resign our office as stewards at White Oak Bidge.” 

“Very well,” remarked the parson, without the least 
change in his countenance indicative of surprise, “ I 
will attend to the matter at our next Quarterly Con- 
ference.” 

The preacher had seen enough of men to appreciate 
the workings of prejudiced and biased human nature, 
and frequently remarked that he had learned an al- 
phabet composed of only two letters, which kept him 
cool and collected at all times: Do right, and then 
let-her-go and let-her-rip. 

The stewards looked at each other in surprise when 
they witnessed the calmness with which their an- 
nouncement was received. The lamb-like expression 
on English’s face matured with amazing rapidity, and 
he now looked remarkably sheepish. Crookshanks re- 
alized that the responsibility of bringing the young 
parson to sorrow rested solely upon him; therefore 
his countenance assumed somewhat of its work-day 
gravity as he renewed the attack. 

“Ahem, ahem, ahem! ” coughed he, as if the phlegm 
sometimes incident to a death-struggle was gathering 
in his throat, “we are going to move our membership 
also, and we want a certificate of Church-member- 
ship.” 

“Very good,” calmly replied the preacher, “that 


The Momentous Conference, 149 

will contravene any action on the part of the Quar- 
terly Conference. If you will furnish me with writ- 
ing material, I will give you certificates now.” 

While the minister was engaged in writing a num- 
ber of certificates — one for each member of the two 
families, as requested — the two stewards looked at 
each other in blank amazement. English’s sheepish 
expression had taken on age to a wonderful degree, 
and he now looked like an aged and helpless sheep. 
Crookshanks was really startled at the calmness of 
his pastor, for the covetous old steward had been the 
hero in every enterprise he had undertaken for the 
last forty years; but in this occurrence it seemed to 
him that the self-possession of the parson would com- 
pletely spoil the prospective victory. Therefore by 
the time the certificates were completed his counte- 
nance had assumed a phase best described by that 
very expressive term asluj. 

The minister, without the least sign of regret or 
agitation, calmly passed the certificates over into the 
hands of his now dismissed official board of White 
Oak Bridge, and as English feebly reached forth for 
his pocket edition of Church-membership he im- 
pressed the pastor as a dying sheep; while Crook- 
shanks, as he placed the bits of paper in his side 
pocket, seemed somewhat ashily delighted that he had 
at last succeeded in pocketing the Church itself. 

The parson, after a few commonplace remarks, 
arose from his seat, preparatory to taking his leave of 
the twain. 

But Crookshanks was not willing to be thus out- 
done. “O,” said he, “don’t leave yet. Sit down; we 
haven’t told you why we are moving our membership. 


150 Out f rom under Ccesar^s Frown. . 

You would like to know why we have taken this step, 
would you not?” 

“Well,” replied the parson, politely resuming his 
seat, “I assume that you are in the exercise of your 
own rightful prerogative; and, while I am by no 
means a secessionist, I grant that men have a perfect 
right to act in their Church relationships as seems 
good to them, and I presume that you have private 
reasons for the action you have taken which it does 
not behoove me as a Christian gentleman to inquire 
into; nevertheless, if you desire to rehearse to me 
your reasons for so doing, I will gladly hear them.” 

This utterance of the preacher fell like a thunder- 
clap upon the ears of the now really pastorless ex- 
officials. They had both been accused of being in 
sympathy with the secessionists; for they were bit- 
terly opposed to war; not, however, from any love of 
the South, but because, as one might readily have 
seen, their property would suffer more or less if such 
ffiiould take place. They were struck, therefore, from 
the preacher’s remark, by the analogy of their action 
to that of the Southern States in withdrawing from 
the Union, or as so construed by the preacher. There- 
fore English folded his hands across his bosom, 
dropped his head, and looked like an aged, dead sheep, 
for he was a strong Unionist; while Crookshanks’s 
embarrassment impressed one with the idea of a 
skeered sheep. After gaining a measure of compos- 
sure, however, he began to set forth his grievances. 
Said he: “You made h personal attack upon us in 
your last sermon over at the Eidge, and that is why 
we have withdrawn our membership; and not be- 
cause, as you intimate, we are secessionists.” 


The Momentous Conference, 151 

“O, I did not mean to intimate that yon were in 
sympathy with the South,” apologized the preacher; 
“the remark was born of that which is uppermost in 
all of our minds at this time; and I hope you will do 
me justice in not attributing such to have been my 
meaning. And as to the personal attack, I must say 
that I fail to see how my sermon could possibly bear 
such a construction. I spoke in general terms, and 
you must have observed that all of my illustrations 
and a large portion of the subject-matter were taken 
directly from the Bible. I assure you, gentlemen, that 
I merely meant to attack a sin which the financial ex- 
hibit of your Church for a number of years would 
lead one to believe exists somewhere in this commu- 
nity. I cannot conscientiously apologize for any 
thing contained in the sermon, but I am sorry that 
you have placed so uncharitable a construction on 
my remarks upon the sin of covetousness.” 

“I can remember a time when Methodist preachers 
preached a pure gospel, and never mentioned money 
from one year to another,” replied the ex-steward. 

“That may be very true. Brother Crookshanks; but 
I assure you they did not preach an entire gospel, 
though it may have been pure as far as they preached 
it..- Have you not read ‘The silver is mine, and the 
gold is mine, saith the Lord of hosts; ’ and that ‘Ev- 
ery beast of the field is mine, and the cattle upon a 
thousand hills? ’ Has not God emphatically declared 
that ‘All the earth is mine? ’ When, therefore, the 
Church has need of money in order to extend her 
borders, is it a crime to ask for what God has declared 
to be his own? Surely I do not understand your po- 
sition in this matter.” 


152 Out from under Ccesar’s Froivn. 

‘‘Yes; but preachers nowadays seem to think that 
they have a right to command men to give money, and 
that it is a crime for a man to take care of and lay up 
what he has made by hard work,” answered the ex- 
steward. 

“And so they have such a right by every title which 
God can give, for has he not declared ‘All souls are 
mine?’ Did it ever occur to you that when Christ 
was on the earth he claimed the high prerogative of 
the literal ownership of men, which necessarily in- 
volved all of their possessions? He commanded men 
to leave their homes and all that they had accumulat- 
ed, and to follow him. He did not ask it as a favor. 
He claimed this prerogative as his own inalienahle 
right. Is his authority less when vested as it is to- 
day in the hands of his embassadors? Inspired truth 
teaches us that no man can absolutely claim the right 
to the smallest portion of property. To illustrate the 
point: If you were to instruct your power of attorney 
to use a portion or all of your gains from this plan- 
tation, or your business interests anywhere, in fitting 
up a plantation in the wilds of the West or in the jun- 
gles of Asia, would a single overseer or clerk or book- 
keeper in your service have the right to enter a pro- 
test against such demands? 

“The cases are analagous. Since God has declared 
that all property belongs to him, and that ‘Ye are 
stewards of my manifold gifts,’ and among these is 
reckoned the material resources with which he has 
blessed us, we are either compelled to disprove his 
title (and that would make us infidels) or violently 
rob him of his dues or accede to his commands. 
Therefore if his i^owers of attorney demand money 


The Momentous Conference, 153 

for the execution of that injunction, ‘Go ye into all 
the world, and preach the gospel to every creature,” no 
steward of his has the right to withhold his property 
or in any way to contravene his purpose. 

“And as to the other misdemeanor with which you 
charge our ministry — viz., that it is a crime to lay up 
or take care of the means with which God has blessed 
men — I simply assert that you are mistaken. The ser- 
mon to which you alluded awhile ago contains, if you 
remember, an answer to the charge. In the biograph- 
ical illustration showing the difference between the 
lives of Abraham and Lot — both rich men — that 
point was, I thought, made clear. I merely mention 
the fact in order to refresh your memory. 

“Again, since this charge, if true, is a serious one, 
let me make the matter clear to you by quoting the 
words of another: ‘Man has a right of property to- 
ward his fellow-man; he has none foward his God. 
Viewed in this latter light, no man can say that what 
he possesses is his own. For here comes in the prior, 
the inalienable claim of the great Maker and Owner 
of all things; and in his regard the wealthiest and 
most powerful descend at once from the rank of pro- 
prietors to that of stewards of another’s rights.’ 

“Therefore I hope, my brother, that you see the 
injustice of the charge which you have brought 
against the ministry at large.” 

The long and unanswerable defense which the 
preacher had made even brought a degree of life 
into English’s dead sheep looks, for at the conclusion 
of these remarks the ex-steward’s parasite raised his 
bowed head and peered beseechingly into the some- 
what troubled countenance of his life-long adviser, 


154 Out from under Cwsar^s Frown, 

as much as to say: “Can’t you try him along some 
other line ? ” 

“Weil, ahem, ahem! [that throat-clearing again, a 
bad omen, thought English] ahem, ahem! I was go- 
ing to say that I have, ahem, been a member of the 
Methoclist Church for thirty years, and the Holy 
Spirit has never impressed me that it was my duty to 
give to the Church further than what is necessary to 
support the preacher; and if everybody would give a 
little, that would not come hard on any of us; but 
the preachers are getting proud and must have big 
salaries, while the Saviour commanded them to take 
neither purse nor scrip.” 

“It may be very true, my brother,” replied the par- 
son, “that the Holy Spirit has never impressed you 
with your duty in this respect; for he is a witness to 
the truth as it is in Christ; and a witness always ex- 
ecutes the functions of his office through the medium 
of words. So the Holy Spirit does not impress us 
with duty apart ffom the revealed word of God, but 
he uses that word; for it is expressly stated that ‘He 
shall glorify me: for he shall receive of mine, and 
shall show it unto you.’ (John xvi. 14.) And 
again: ‘He shall teach you all things, and bring all 
things to your remembrance, whatsoever I have said 
unto you.’ (John xiv. 26.) Therefore we are not 
to expect to be impressed with duty apart from the 
ex 2 )ress declaration of God’s word. 

“Besides, your Church vows obligate you ‘to do 
good whether your hearts be free to it or not.’ Tliis 
vow rests upon St. Paul’s declaration: ‘For the love 
of Christ constraineth iis.’ You will observe that it 
is not our love for Christ, but an overwhelming con- 


165 


The Momentous Conference, 

viction and an acute knowledge of his boundless and 
sacrificial love for us that constitutes the motor of 
our actions. ‘Ye are not your own, ... ye are 
bought with a price.’ 

“And then, my brother, in the text which you 
quoted relative to carrying purse and scrip, you will 
observe that the Saviour gives as a reason for that 
negative injunction that ‘the servant is worthy of his 
hire.’ Again St. Paul affirms that the minister’s po- 
sition relative to salary is analagous to that of the 
priesthood under the old dispensation ; and they were 
the highest-salaried men in the Jewish theocracy: 
‘Do ye not know that they which minister about holy 
things live of the things of the temple? and they 
which wait at the altar are partakers with the altar? 
Even so hath the Lord ordained that they which 
preach the gospel should live of the gospel.’ ( I Cor. 
ix. 13, 14.) 

“Furthermore, relative to our obligation to meet 
the demands of the Church in extending her borders, 
it is actually declared that we are bound to sell our 
coat for Missions: ‘He that hath two coats let him 
impart to him that hath none.’ (Luke iii. 11.) But 
the obligation we are under to send forth the word of 
life even transcends that which we have just noticed: 
‘Hereby perceive we the love of God, because he laid 
down his life for us: and we ought to lay down our 
lives for the brethren. But whoso hath this world’s 
good, and seeth his brother have need, and shutteth 
up his bowels of compassion from him, how dwelleth 
the love of God in him?’ (1 John iii. 16, 17.) 

“ It is not necessary that I should quote texts show- 
ing who our neighbors and brethren are. Christ has 


156 Out from under Ccesar^s Frown, 

set that ]3oint beyond all controversy in the parable 
of the good Samaritan. So, my brother, you see the 
extent of the moral obligation under which the death 
of Christ has brought us. 

“ Eelative to the pride of preachers I have no reply 
to make further than this: that it is a very personal 
allusion; but I assure you that it will not cause me 
to change my present Church relationship.” 

At the conclusion of this vindication of the require- 
ments of the gospel all hope of triumph had fled 
from the countenances of the two ex-stewards. The 
parson bid them good-by, and left them drooping 
like two sheep nigh unto death. 


CHAPTEE XVIII. 
Two Aetificial Quakers. 


HEEE are times persons, attempting some- 



1 thing from spite, seem to be transformed, in look, 
gesture, and general carriage, into some such sentence 
as this: “How do we look now?” Could the reader 
have seen William Crookshanks and George English 
on their way home from the Quaker meeting-house, 
on the Sunday following the events recorded in the 
last chapter, he would have almost instinctively an- 
swered: “Somewhat artificial.” 

It is a patent fact that when one changes his relig- 
ious principles he generally becomes an extremest in 
his new relationships, and very often a bigot in main- 
taining the tenets of his adopted views. This is 
all very natural, because "men wish to impress the 
world with the fact that they have ample grounds for 
any change of opinion. Their extreme bigotry is 
therefore in justification of their change of views; 
therefore such bigotry is born of hypocrisy. 

The two ex-stewards, the late official board of 
White Oak Eidge Methodist Episcopal Church, were 
therefore dressed in full Quaker uniform^ even then 
growing almost if not quite obsolete: broad-brimmed 
hats and drab-colored suits. It was an amusing 
spectacle ; for English in his new outfit looked a little 
mousey, while Crookshanks, with his great crop of 
beard and smilingly parted lips, reminded one of a 
regular caricature of a man of peace — viz., an opos- 


( 157 ) 


158 Out from under Ccesar^s Frown. 

sum tickled by the captor’s grasp, humbly smiling 
its suit for a cessation of further hostilities. 

A remark made by Crookshanks to his tenacious 
admirer, as they rode away from the Quaker church, 
showed that after all the young Methodist parson’s 
sermon was not really the cause of this change of 
Church relationship. The whole country was on the 
verge of civil war; the intensest excitement prevailed 
everywhere, and in many Northern States he who did 
not boldly express his opinion for putting down by 
force of arms what they ardently termed a rebellion 
was looked upon as a friend to the Southern cause, 
and was treated more or less with a coolness that 
bordered on ostracism. I merely make this state- 
ment of fact to throw light upon the following conver- 
sation : 

‘T feel that I have to-day accomplished the great- 
est work of my life, friend English,” observed Crook- 
shanks, as the two rode along the highway. “I have 
always thought that the Friends were right in their 
interpretation of the Scripture. You see now, friend 
English, there is no money-loving ministry to domi- 
neer over us from the pulpit [they had united with 
the Hicksite branch of Friends], and no foreign mis- 
sionary cause forever ringing in our ears ; these Friends 
simply look after their poor at home, and in this land 
where everybody ought to be able to take care of them- 
selves, do you see? that will not come hard on any 
of us.” 

English assented heartily to the remarks of his 
friend, and ventured to add: “And no silk beavers and 
kid gloves and broadcloth suits to pay for, either.” 

“Thy head is level, friend English,” dropping his 


159 


Tivo Artificial Quakers. 

voice several tones lower, “and these are perilous 
times, too. Suppose a Southern army should sweep 
down upon us, what would become of our hard-earned 
property? Or suppose this country should become 
the camping- grouud of the United States soldiers, 
what would become of our crops and cattle and all of 
our financial interests? Yes, yes, friend English, 
these are perilous times. And do you see? it is a 
providence that tries the works and doctrines of the 
Church, and shows whether they be ‘wood, hay, or 
stubble.’ Would to God all the people. North and 
South, vrere as we have become this day — opposed to 
war. Do you see — men of peace, friend English, eh? 
— religiously opposed to war, and friends to both 
sides? And do you see? — the Constitution of the 
government forbids it to interfere with our religious 
opinion. Yes, friend English, our course is the only 
safe way, and it is remarkable how the fiery trials of 
providence reveal the way of right. To tell thee the 
truth, friend English, I never thought much about 
what denomination was really right until the last few 
weeks ; and, marvelous to tell, I have been living here 
among the Eriends for fifty-nine years October com- 
ing, and I have never seen any thing in the name of 
the true followers of Christ till now — Friends^ do you 
see?” 

“I had never thought of that,” said English, peer- 
ing out from under his broad- brimmed hat like a 
mouse peeping from under aflat band-box; “and then, 
friend Crookshanks, it seems to be providential all 
around. That young money-bag that the bishop sent 
to our Methodist brethren by his personal thrusts at 
us first put us to thinking. As you say, it is remark- 


160 Out from under Ccesar Froum. 

able how God la^s hold of profane persons and things 
to open the eyes of his true children.” 

Just at this juncture of their conversation they 
spied the head of what appeared to be a vast column 
of mounted men moving toward them. They looked 
at each other in blank amazement. 

“What does that mean? ” ejaculated English, as 
they reined their horses to one side of the road to 
make way for the approaching column of United 
States cavalry. 

“Jeff Davis and his men, I’ll warrant you,” replied 
Crookshanks in a whisper. 

By this time the great column of blue had reached 
the point where the two frmidly disposed horsemen 
were standing. As the line of cavalry began to file 
past them an amused expression wreathed the faces 
of even the war-visaged officers. On and on it swept, 
with many a chuckle and mischievous look from the 
soldiers as they passed 'the two friendly citizens. 
When the center of the column reached the recently 
gowned converts to the tenets of the immortal Fox, 
being somewhat remote from the direct supervision 
of the officers, the chuckles and sly looks on the part 
of the soldiery passed into ridicule. 

“Quack, quack, quack,” said a mischievous-looking 
churl, as his steed capered by the two peaceful GiiizQws. 
“Quack, quack, quack,” one and then another took up 
the word until the noise made thereby sounded like 
the rushing of many waters, in the ears of two of the 
most peaceable citizens in the world. When that by 
no means euphonious sound died away, another tall, 
angular down-easier pranced his steed near the hum-, 
ble twain, and raised with the point of his saber the 


Two Artificial Quakers. 


161 


broad-brimmed hat, which Crookshaiiks had pulled 
down over his brow during the quacking ceremony; 
and as he did so uttered the words “Foxy, foxy, foxy,” 
a number of times, which in turn was taken up by 
every horseman till it likewise ran its course. 

Finally, as if the mischievous soldiery had deliber- 
ately planned a climacteric series of indignities, there 
strode by the now thoroughly humbled twain an 
extremely serious-looking individual, who held out 
his hand to the two pacific brethren, and said in a very 
obsequious manner and tone: “An alms. Friends.” 
No one else uttered a word, but the entire portion of 
the column then passing assumed, after the example 
of their leader, the most serious look and deportment; 
and thus, with extended hands, they passed by, mute- 
ly, seriously, and in the most pantomimical manner. 
Then came the rear of the column, and with it a few 
officers so busily engaged in discussing the great po- 
litical questions of the day that they did not notice 
the. two citizens by the way-side; but the privates 
passed with many sly winks and nods and wry faces 
and mock salutations and low bows. 

Thus passed the long column of blue, which proved 
not to be “Jeff Davis and his men,” but Northern 
soldiers who, in obedience to the call of Lincoln on 
the 15th April, 1861, were on their way to what 
afterward became the scenes of the bloodiest conflicts 
of modern warfare — the battle-fields of Virginia — for 
the purpose of putting down by force of arms those 
“combinations too powerful to be suppressed by the 
ordinary course of judicial proceedings;” and which 
came well-nigh being “too powerful to be suppressed 
by the” extraordinary course of Northern arms. 


162 Out from under Cmsar 's Frown. 

As the two peaceably inclined citizens resumed 
their journey they rode for some distance in profound 
silence. 

At length English broke the oppressive silence by 
observing: “ Those were men.” 

“ I claim no stock in them,” sarcastically replied 
Crookshanks; “ I am a man of peace, friend En- 
glish.” 

“ O, so am I too,” quickly interposed the satellite, 
feeling sensibly the somewhat concealed rebuke in 
his friend’s words; “I meant to say they were North- 
ern soldiers.” 

“ Y-e-s,” replied Crookshanks slowly; “ but hence- 
forth I shall know no North and no South. I am a 
man of peace.” 

There was still a hidden rebuke in Crookshanks’ s 
reply; but English, for fear of making matters worse, 
concluded to turn the line of conversation. “What 
did the rascals mean by saying ‘ Quack, quack? ^ Did 
they mean to call us geese? ” he asked. 

“Y-e-s, I suppose so,” answered Crookshanks; 
“and if the Southern belligerents should prove too 
strong for them, and should drive them back in this 
direction, I’m afraid they’ll be at the picking.” 

“ They shall not fleece me, if there’s any power in 
this government to protect me,” said English, looking 
somewhat sheepish. “ I’m a man of peace from the 
crown of my head to the soles of my feet.” 

After this remark the couple again rode along for 
some distance, and each one seemed to be deeply en- 
gaged with his own thoughts. 

At last Crookshanks raised his head and remarked: 
“Friend English, what do you suppose they meant 


163 


Two Artificial Quakers. 

when that stack of bones raised my hat with his sa- 
ber, and remarked ‘Foxy?’ Did they mean to say I 
was drank? — I have heard drunk men called foxy — 
or did they mean to say that I was playing a shrewd 
game by casting in my lot with the Friends ? ” 

“O,” replied English, who' had been reading up for 
the last few days the history of the Friends, “ I sup- 
pose they meant to taunt us with being followers of 
George Fox, the founder of our Church.” 

This explanation seemed to lift a great burden from 
the mind of the inquirer, and he immediately became 
more cheerful. Ah, indeed “ conscience is the book 
in which our daily sins are written,” and so long as 
sinful men can conceal its pages from public scrutiny 
they feel satisfied. 

“ Friend English,” said Crookshanks, with a fiend- 
ish twinkle in his eyes, “ I think those fellows in the 
rear who were so intent on a collection must have 
been Methodist brethren, and must also have sat at 
some time or other under the ministry of the young 
parson over at White Oak Eidge.” 

“ Possibly so,” said English, “but they won’t have 
much trouble counting their cash.” 

O depraved humanity, whose attempts at wit and 
sarcasm so often rebound on the parsimony and 
stinginess so deeply imbedded sometimes in the hu- 
man heart! Satan himself must sometimes become 
ashamed of his own work. 

But conscience again whispers in Crookshanks’s 
heart, and he inclines to the serious side of matters 
just as the twain are about to reach his gate. A sad 
train of thought had been set in motion by English’s 
remark, and it preyed heavily upon the covetous old 


164 Out from under Caesar ’s Frown. 

man’s mind. ‘‘‘All, friend English,” said he, “this 
war is bound to make taxes high, and don’t you see, 
if, as I said awhile ago, the army should be driven 
back upon us, the collection won’t be by any means 
light. Ah! friend English, I’m a man of peace; peace 
don’t cost anybody a cent. War is expensive, and 
the money to carry it on has to come from some- 
where, and from where else will it come but from out 
of the pockets of hard-working poor men such as we 
are?” 

The couple had now reached the home of Crook- 
shanks, and therefore they parted for the day. As 
English took his leave of his financial adviser and 
general trustee an amusing little episode took place. 
A saucy little urchin, a child of one of Crookshanks’s 
tenants, was standing at the gate as the two men 
parted, and of course the little fellow was listening to 
all that was said, for all bright children are close ob- 
servers. “Good-by, brother — ah! ahem, I beg par- 
don — I mean friend English,” said the old steward of 
White Oak Ridge. 

“ Good-day, Crookshanks,” and the satellite 
rode away toward his home. 

As the old gentleman alighted from his steed and 
started toward his dwelling, the little observer and 
listener met him with this pertinent inquiry: “Mr. 
Crookshanks, have you and Mr. English quit being 
brothers?” 

“Go along away from here, you impudent little 
brat,” scolded the somewhat incensed man of peace^ 
“or I’ll wear you out with this cowhide; leave my 
gate, or I’ll switch you within an inch of your life.” 

The little fellow scampered away as fast as his lit- 


Two Artificial Quakers. 


165 


tie feet could carry him, and tlie man of peace sought 
the shelter of his pacific home. 

O the depths of deception, falsehood, hypocrisy, 
and insincerity that are born of covetousness in the 
human heart! No wonder that God has branded it 
as the worst of crimes! 


CHAPTEE XIX. 

f 

Catastbophes and Cataclysms. 

W HEN George English reached his home, after 
the incidents which we have recorded in the 
previous chapter, he found his faithful wife prostrated 
upon a bed of sickness. The meek, sweet-spirited 
woman had been pining away day by day ever since 
Edward, her only child, had left home, until now she 
had become physically a mere shadow. The cavalry 
of which we have spoken had passed the residence of 
George English and a soldier had hitched his steed 
for a few moments at the gate of this, to the languish- 
ing wife at least, sad home, and with clanking saber 
and rattling spurs had entered the house. He threw 
his arms around the frail form, and with tears stream- 
ing from his eyes kissed the pale cheeks of her who 
had given him birth. 

It was Edward. The mother and son exchanged, 
amid sobs and tears, a few words; and then, after re- 
peated embraces, the young cavalier tore himself away 
from a mother’s fond clasp, and with his whole form 
convulsed with grief threw himself into the saddle 
and galloped away to resume his place in the line of 
march. The mother, having followed with tottering 
steps the manly form of her son to the gate, stood 
there looking after the receding form of her soldier 
boy. The pistols that swung from the saddle-tree, 
the carbine suspended from his shoulder, the car- 
tridge-box belted around his waist, together with 
( 166 ) 


Catastrojjhes and Cataclysms, 1G7 

clanking canteen and saber, impressed the sorrowful 
mother with visions of blood. She saw, in her ex- 
cited imagination, the pale, upturned face of her boy 
as he lay upon a bloody field of strife, pierced through 
by the flying missiles of death, with none to care for 
* him or bandage the blood-belching wound. The 
shock w^as too great for her. She sunk down upon 
the cold earth in a swooning condition, whence she 
was borne to her bed by a faithful servant. In this 
condition, suffering from extreme nervous prostration, 
the husband found his faithful, uncomplaining wife 
when he stepped into his house. 

A physician was immediately summoned, but ere 
he reached the bedside of the dying woman, she 
struggled wildly, and in her delirium called for writ- 
ing material. When her request was granted, she be- 
came remarkably calm, asked to be raised to a sitting 
posture, took the pencil and paper on her lap, and 
penned the following lines in a bold, legible hand: 

Dear Eddie : I am dying. Leave the battle-field, and so live 
as to meet me in heaven. 0 do not imbue thy once chubby 
little hands, covered with ten thousand times ten thousand of 
thy fond mother’s kisses, in human blood. O my son, remem- 
ber that our Master says : “ Inasmuch as ye did it unto one of the 
least of these my brethren, ye did it unto me.” Come back, my 
boy ! Come back. 

Lovingly, dying. Mother. 

The lasWsentence was scarcely legible; beginning 
in a clear, plain hand, the short letter showed the 
traces in each succeeding word of failing strength, 
till the last word “ Mother ” had to be guessed rather 
than spelled. When the epistle was concluded, she 
fell back upon her pillow, and faintly whispered: 
“ Send it to Eddie, and bury me at White Oak Bidge, 


168 


Out f rom under Ccesar Frown. 


by the side of darling Fannie’s little grave.” She was 
dead, and Fannie was her little infant daughter that 
had died twenty years before this sad scene. 

George English was almost frantic with grief. His 
conscience whispered continually, as he paced the si- 
lent halls of his own home: “ Thou didst it! ” In his 
intense grief and bewilderment he had nervously fin- 
gered through the pockets of his garments, and feeling 
in his vest pocket a strip of paper he drew it out and 
read it: 

The bearer hereof, Katie English, has been an acceptable 
member of the Methodist Episcopal Church at White Oak Eidge, 
Pennsylvania Conference. Given April 8, 1861. 

James C. Owen, P. C. 

“Died out of the Church which she loved,” said 
he, as he read the certificate for which he had asked 
the young pastor without for once letting his wife 
know of the bold step he had taken relative to her 
membership at White Oak Eidge. “ Died out of the 
Church for which she would have given every cent’s 
worth of property that I own, had it been necessary 
and had I permitted her,” he continued to soliloquize; 
“out of the Church in wdiich we were married, and 
whence we carried, twenty years ago, the dead body 
of our darling little Fannie.” Then, pacing to and 
fro, he said: “I gave but little to the Church she 
loved, and permitted her to give nothing, and this 
day I have derided the Church that was so dear to 
her, and — O my God!” said he, breaking down with 
grief, “ is this a judgment from heaven on my sinful 
head!” 

In his paroxisms of grief he tore the Quaker uni- 
form from his body and thrust it into the fire that 


Catastrophes and Catacli/sms. 169 

burned in the grate of his apartment. After donning 
another suit, he came out of his room, kissed the cold 
cheek of his now sainted wife, kneeled a moment at 
the couch upon which she lay, and then summoniug 
a servant, sent him post-haste after the pastor of 
White Oak Ridge. 

When the young minister arrived, the grief-strick- 
en husband took him into a private apartment, con- 
fessed his crime, begged to return the certificate, and 
thus restore his wife to membership in the Church of 
her choice, and pledged his allegiance to the Church 
which she loved so long as he should live. 

Without tiring the reader with all the details of the 
burial of Katie English and contingent events, I wish 
to say that two months after that sad scene the fol- 
lowing parties might have been seen seated around 
the bedside of George English, who lay fatally ill: 
William Crookshanks, still in his Quaker uniform, 
and \vho was so ill at ease that his nervousness be- 
trayed itself to every one present, a physician, the 
young pastor of White Oak Ridge, and a lawyer, who 
sat at a table busily writing a legal document — the 
last will and testament of George English. He gave 
and bequeathed half of his property to Edward En- 
glish, his heirs and assignees forever, and the other 
half to the Methodist Episcopal Church, to be used by 
that denomination for the glory of God, as the discre- 
tion of the Church might judge best. 

A few days after the above transaction the obsequies 
of the testator took place at White Oak Ridge; and 
the young minister, who had remained with him to 
the last and who had received assurances of his trust 
in Christ and of an abundant pardon through the all- 


170 Out from under Ccesar^s Froivn. 

prevailing merit of Christ, chose these words as a text 
for the funeral discourse, which he delivered on that 
occasion : “ Out of the eater came forth meat, and out 
of the strong came forth sweetness.” (Judges xiv. 

14 .) 

The discourse made a profound and lasting impres- 
sion upon the vast audience that listened to it, and 
from that day the little chapel began to put on new 
life, and is to-day one of the leading Churches within 
the bounds of the Pennsylvania Conference. 

It seems that there is a point in the scale of criipe 
which when reached only brings forth disaster, death, 
and ruin. George English trembled on the verge of 
that awful crisis, and was wise enough to see his 
crimes, and was, in the very nick of time, rescued by 
divine grace from irretrievable and eternal ruin. 

But the saddest phase of this piece of family rem- 
iniscence is the fact that William Crookshanks perse- 
vered persistently in the course of action which he 
had adopted. The old man, clad in his peace cos- 
tume, lived from day to day under the darkest clouds 
of apprehended danger and calamity. He had reached 
that point where his own family had become disgusted 
with the perfidy and hypocrisy which were so palpably 
manifest in all of his dealings. Before the end of the 
year 1861 his two remaining daughters had left home 
and his four sons had enlisted in the Northern army. 
One by one they fell, and at the end of the year 1862 
he was without a son. His wife died in March, 1862. 
His line of steamers had been so crippled and de- 
stroyed by privateers that they amounted to a clear 
loss. One disaster after another rolled upon the cov- 
etous old man of peace until at the beginning of 1863 


Catastrophes and Cataclysms. 171 

he was even homeless, his dwelling having accident- 
ally burned down at the beginning of that year. His 
daughters, who had drifted as nurses into a Pennsyl- 
vania hospital, had contracted small-pox from the sol- 
dier patients, and were no more, so that the old man 
was left to nurse his sorrows and disasters without 
hope or comfort of any kind. 

The old man thus unfortunate placed a number of 
papers in an old haversack, strapped it 9 ,cross his 
shoulders, and set out to find Edward English, whose 
trustee he was. A record of his journey is reserved 
for another chapter. 


CHAPTEK XX. 

The Man of Peace Looks upon Wae. 
ERTAIN sins may become so incorporated into 



one’s nature as to thoroughly impress the one 
thus imbued that the great end of life consists in fos- 
tering, cultivating, and making ample provision for 
such sins and their results. This is true especially 
of the sin of covetousness. The* devotee at the shrine 
of mammon reaches at last a point where he conceives 
it to be the highest and most binding duty in the uni- 
verse to preserve and perpetuate his hard-earned and 
ill-gotten gains by placing them in the possession of 
those who have a legal claim upon them. This is fre- 
quently done at the expense of justice. One of the 
strangest characteristics of covetous men is that while 
they frequently violate every principle of justice and 
equity in accumulating their fortunes, they are very 
averse to being considered legally dishonest. The 
hope of their life is to die regarded as honest men. 
This is so because all sin seeks to vindicate itself, and 
when one becomes a specialist in any department of 
sin, that desire develops in proportion to the growth 
of the sin. 

It is not surprising, therefore, that William Crook- 
shanks, when he met with the disasters to which we 
have already alluded, should have sought Edward En- 
glish in order to place within his hands the papers 
which secured the investments of his father’s money. 
It was not, however, a spirit of honesty that com- 


( 172 ) 


173 


The Man of Peace Looks u])on War, 

pelled him to this step. Men too frequently, alas ! at- 
tribute such acts to a desire to be honest, when really 
they are defensive of dishonesty and sin. 

The old man had really reached that point in a life 
of covetousness where the sum total of life consisted 
in covering up, or attempting to do so at least, every 
possible trace of dishonesty. It was the supreme am- 
bition of the old man’s life to be considered an hon- 
est, upright man. And so far as legal requirements 
were involved and the law demanded he was of un- 
disputed integrity. But to be truly- an honest man 
implies a great deal more than mere conformity to 
the letter of the law. Many men have been esteemed 
as strictly honest and scrupulously just who were in- 
deed very far from being either. 

When George English had consulted William 
Crookshanks relative to his son’s desire to attend 
college, and had received advice growing primarily 
out of the old man’s desire to handle every available 
cent of English’s money, which really led to the sad 
scenes already noticed, he was actually cheated by his 
financial agent out of the joy and peace of domestic 
life, and eventually out of the life of the precious 
wife of his own bosom. Edward English had also 
been cheated out of the love of a father and the 
brightest prospects in the intellectual world, and had 
been sent adrift with that great current of floating in- 
dividuals who are carried hither and thither upon the 
restless tides of individualistic fancy. No amount of 
money could repair his losses, and the covetousness 
of William Crookshanks had really deprived the En- 
glish family of that to which all the wealth of the 
world is incomparable. 


174 Out from under Caesar’s Frown. 

The curse-burdened old man was determined, how- 
ever, to deal honestly with Edward English, so far as 
dollars and cents were involved. Therefore he set 
out to seek the wayward young man among the tented 
fields of Northern Virginia. His heart assured him 
that by so doing he would lift a great burden from 
his soul. He desired to die clear of any charge of 
dishonesty — this was his god. He had friends in 
Washington who were under pecuniary obligations at 
least to him, and these friends were connected with 
the government. Through their instrumentality he 
secured official papers which gave to him protection 
as a citizen of the United States and also the privi- 
lege of visiting and holding conference relative to 
business matters with Edward English, then supposed 
to be in Gen. Grant’s army. 

When Crookshanks reached the place of his desti- 
nation, however, it was only to meet with the bitterest 
disappointment. The name of Edward English was 
found on an old company’s roll, but opposite it was 
marked ^^Missing.” 

The old man was about to retrace his steps, feeling 
that life itself was a burden and that keenest sufferings 
and disappointments would meet him at every step, 
when he was accosted by a tall, serious-looking Down 
Easter: ‘‘ Friend, an alms.” Looking up into the face 
of the mock beggar, he recognized the petitioner as 
the one who had led in the farcical collection on that 
eventful Sunday in 1861 as he and George English 
awaited by the roadside to let the line of cavalry pass 
them. Though neither English nor Crookshanks had 
recognized Edward English in the long column of sol- 
diers that passed them on that occasion, Crookshanks 


The Man of Peace Looks upon War, 175 

knew from what they afterward learned that he was 
really one of the passing column. Therefore the rec- 
ognition of this individual, who would mock his relig- 
ious proclivities, was really a pleasure upon the part 
of Crookshanks, who hoped that he could gain from 
the scoffer at his garb and religion some clue as to 
the whereabouts of the object of his search. There- 
fore he replied: “Indeed! I will give thee a hundred 
alms if than wilt tell me where Edward English is.” 

“And pay it out of Edward English’s father’s mon- 
ey into the bargain, would you, old foxy? ” sarcastic- 
ally replied the yankee. 

“ Nay, verily, friend, thou doest an innocent old 
man great injustice. Edward English shall have 
every cent of his dead father’s money that is in my 
hands. Tell me, friend, dost thou know aught of his 
whereabouts?” replied Crookshanks in a somewhat 
offended tone. 

“Well, old quakeij, since you seem about ready to 
turn up your toes and bid farewell to earth, I guess 
I can put you on track of him, if his trail an’t too cold 
to follow,” answered the yankee. 

This was welcome news to the heart-broken and 
partially crazed old man, and he listened intently as 
the droll yankee rehearsed to him how Edward En- 
glish had been one of his most intimate friends, and 
how they had wandered here and there prior to the 
great civil struggle that was then shaking the govern- 
ment from center to circumference, and how they had 
fought side by side up to the time of Edward’s disap- 
pearance. 

The story was a long one, and it is only necessary 
to record so much of it here as is essential to a clear 


17G Out from under Ccesar^s Frown, 

exposition of the mystery of the hoary old cliff- 
walker already so frequently alluded to within these 
pages. 

Edward English and his chum had wandered, dur- 
ing a space of inaction between the two opposing ar- 
mies, too near the Confederate line of battle, a soldier 
had discovered them, and in their flight had shot 
down English and had left him, as he supposed, dead. 
That soldier, as the reader must have already guessed, 
was Dick Ivey. Under the cover of night English’s 
faithful friend had re-visited the scene and had dis- 
covered the body of his friend, and as he was still 
living had borne him to a farm-house in the vicinity 
of the almost fatal scene, where his wounds were 
dressed and where he was cared for till he sufficiently 
recovered to travel on foot. 

The yankee had learned from the inmates of the 
farm-house that English had determined to quit the 
army and go South by wandering along the great blue 
chain of mountains into the Carolinas. This was all 
he knew of the whereabouts of his old friend. 

The old Quaker dropped a few coin into the hand 
of the Union soldier, and in a few hours he had passed 
the farm-house already alluded to and was rapidly 
pushing his way into the heart of the immense range 
that stretched away toward the south. His jour- 
ney was a lucky one. As he prosecuted his search 
from day to day he discovered that he was unmistak- 
ably on trail of his missing ward. The simple-hearted 
mountaineers who had entertained English were ready 
to give the old man all the information which they 
possessed relative to the wandering soldier who had 
drifted along the great chain of mountains. Thus he 


177 


The Man of Peace Looks ii])on War. 

followed the missing soldier to the scene already de- 
scribed in the introductory pages of this book — viz., 
The Dismal. 

While he was standing one day upon a crag of 
frowning old Caesar’s form, he beheld Edward English 
moving about the cabin already described— viz., that 
of Mica jail Grant. 

Then there arose a great struggle within the old 
man’s heart. Now that he had found the object of 
his search, he was greatly perplexed as to what course 
he should pursue. The old man was really partially 
crazed by the troubles which had come upon him ; he 
was in the land of the enemy, and so was the object 
of his search. Edward English’s heart was embit- 
tered against him ; besides, one wdio had cultivated the 
sin of covetousness to the degree that William Crook- 
shanks had, would naturally, notwithstanding his de- 
sire to be legally honest, have a strong desire to put 
off or defer restitution till the last moment. There- 
fore the somewhat dementated old man concluded to 
keep a close watch upon his ward and at the same 
time keep himself aloof from Edward English. He 
therefore adopted the mode of life already described, 
and visited periodically the clifPs above the little cab- 
in that he might satisfy himself of English’s safety 
and well-being. 

Clad in a large white blanket, with his long white 
hair and beard toyed with by the wind, together with 
the dementated state of mind that always seized upon 
him during these visits and caused him to cry out, as 
already portrayed, for it was then that he thought es- 
pecially upon his life and troubles; all of these things 
taken together had been instrumental in spreading 
12 


178 Out f rom under Caesar 's Frown. 

terror through The Dismal and in giving to the cliffs 
the reputation of being haunted. 

The solution of this mystery brings us to the dis- 
appearance of Edward English on the day that he was 
shot by Dick Ivey. We must therefore turn to that 
phase of our narrative. 


CHAPTEE XXL ; 

Edwakd English Eescued. 

W ILLIAM CEOOKSHAXKS was only a few steps 
away from the precipice upon which Dick Ivey 
stood when he shot Edward English. The report of 
the pistol caused the half-dementated old man to start 
up from behind the great rock where he was reposing 
just in time to see the body of Dick Ivey struggling 
on the edge of the precipice where he had lost his . 
foot-hold in his hasty attempt at .flight, and whence he 
fell. The. mysterious old cliff- walker rushed to the 
bloody scene at the base of the cliff, picked up the 
bleeding, .unconscious form of Edward English, and 
bore it away up the steep acclivities of the mountain 
side as if he were carrying a mere infant. 

At last he reached a great shelving rock, where the 
old man had, by some artificial means, made for him- 
self a tolerably comfortable habitation. Under this 
great rock and upon a cot of dried ferns and moss he 
deposited the bleeding and exhausted body of his 
ward. A hasty examination of the wound convinced 
him that it was not necessarily fatal. He therefore 
stopped the flow of blood by a free application of cold 
water, bandaged the wound, and, as English had by 
this time regained consciousness and manifested signs 
of great restlessness, the old herbalist administered a 
large dose of the infusion of scull-cap, so that his 
patient was soon soundly sleeping, and thus the old 
Quaker had time to revisit the bloody scene of the 

( 179 ) 


180 Old from under Ccesar's Frown. 

intended murder. He found nothing remaining on 
the spot, however, but Dick Ivey’s revolver, which had 
fallen from his hand when he fell from the precipice 
whence he shot Edward English. The old recluse 
secured the weapon and was leisurely sauntering along 
the mountain side brandishing the revolver in his 
hand, for the initials, “E. E.,” engraved upon the sil- 
ver mounting of the breech had thrown the old man 
into one of those fits of soliloquy so frequently char- 
acterizing the partially dementated, especially when 
such mental aberration is produced by the stinging 
rebukes of conscience. 

“ Edward English was shot with his own revolver 
in the hands of another, and I am largely responsible 
for it,” muttered the old man as he wandered along 
the rocky precipice. “Ah! all is gone, children and 
property, but what is left I will gather together and 
put it in the hand of him whom I have wounded and 
wronged more sorely than others have done.” Thus so- 
liloquizing, and utterly forgetful of every thing round 
about him, the partially crazy old mail had moved 
along the rocky ledge until he reached a point direct- 
ly over the spot where Dick Ivey was sitting. The 
blood from the wounded man had stained the tip end 
of his long white beard and had dyed crimson here 
and there the white blanket that fluttered about his 
tall, angular form. 

The partial reverie into which the old man had 
fallen was dissipated by the sight of the would-be 
murderer as he reclined his throbbing body against one 
of the giant oaks of the primeval forest that crowned 
the rocky declivities of the sublime heights that^rose 
tier upon tier toward the heavens. There, amid the 


Edward English Rescued, 181 

grandest and wildest scenery, transpired the episode ' 
described in a previous chapter. 

William Crookshanks, as he stood watching the 
fleeing form of Dick Ivey, knowing the hatred for 
English that mpst liave rankled in the heart of the 
cowardly assassin, and believing that every moment 
spent in the vicinity of The Dismal would be at the 
hazard of a life around which entwined every tendril 
of hope in his own now broken and thoroughly shat- 
tered heart, determined to remove as quickly as pos- 
sible his ward from the community over which, in his 
candid estimation, had gathered every ominous cloud 
of danger and out of which thunderbolts of pent-up 
wrath and hate were about to dart down upon the de- 
voted head of the wounded man now resting upon his 
crude bed of ferns and twigs under the great shelving 
rock which constituted the temporary dwelling-place 
of the ghost of the cliffs. 

He hastened back, therefore, to the side of the 
wounded man, resolved on transferring him to some 
place of safety as soon as he gained strength enough 
to undergo the fatigue incident to the removal. As 
he entered the crude rock-roofed apartment in which 
Edward English had been placed, he shuddered as 
he looked into the pale face of the sleeping man. He 
drew near the couch, and stooping over the prostrate 
form he discovered' that his patient was breathing 
gently. This fact dissipated his fears; and, inspired 
with fresh hope relative to English’s recovery, he be- 
gan to. make a more thorough examination as to the 
character of the wound. The ball had entered the 
right shoulder from above, had ranged downward, 
fracturing the collar-bone, and thence plov;ing just 


182 Oat from under Ccesar Frown. 

under the skin was barely imbedded in the flesh just 
beneath the right nipple. The knife of the old “root 
doctor ” quickly dislodged the bullet. The improvised 
surgeon was in the act of applying salves when the 
wound.ed man awoke. The powerful narcotic had 
spent its force, and the sufferer gazed wildly around 
him. Fixing his eyes at length upon the old cliff- 
walker, he seemed determined to look him through 
and through. Like a wounded eagle, he lay helpless 
and panting at the feet of one whom he suspected had 
wounded him. He watched every movement of the 
old man, and for a few moments suffered indescriba- 
ble mental agonies, owing to the fact that he surmised 
William Crookshanks to have been the agent of his 
present suffering, and he knew not how soon he would 
complete his bloody work. But his foreboding fears 
were born only to be dissipated by the genial smiles 
of the old friend of his father. 

When William Crookshanks perceived that his pa- 
tient was awake, he drew near to the couch vipon 
which the wounded man was lying, and taking him 
by the hand, while tears of joy streamed down his 
furrowed cheeks, gave him every assurance of friend- 
ship and almost paternal interest. 

“Ah! friend Edward, I have rescued thee from the 
very jaws of death,” said the old man, bowing over 
the prostrate form of his ward; “and had it not been 
that I am a man of peace, I would have emptied these 
loaded barrels into the heart of thy enemy only a few 
moments ago. The temptation was strong, Ttell thee, 
friend Edward, and it well-nigh overcame me.” 

Here he produced the revolver which he had picked 
up on the unfortunate spot already described. 


183 


Edward English Rescued, 

“O my God,” groaned the afflicted man, "‘are all 
my wounds and sufferings to com^ from my own 
weapons? ” 

“ What aileth thee^ my son ? The enemy hath fled, 
casting away his arms? ” said the old Quaker as he 
observed the shudder that passed over English’s coun- 
tenance when he beheld the revolver from whose muz- 
zle had leaped the bullet that had shattered his 
shoulder. 

“I mean that Egypt is a broken reed, upon which 
if one lean it shall thrust him through and through,” 
enigmatically responded Edward as he scanned the 
revolver. 

“ Is this accursed agent of war and violence endued 
with talismanic charms?” asked the perplexed old 
man as he reached forth to take the revolver from 
the hand of English, who seemed to be forgetful of 
every thing else as he looked the weapon over and 
over. 

“Touch it not, William Crookshanks,” replied the 
interested examiner. “It is a dangerous instrument; 
its sting is as fatal as the rattlesnake’s fang. Touch 
it not, for it brings to me lessons of wisdom as well 
as keenest pangs of grief and remorse.” 

“Art thou beside thyself, friend Edward?” mourn- 
fully queried the old man. 

“ O no! I am just coming to myself, like the prod- 
igal of old, and I half believe that I am being clothed 
in my right mind. O that I could sit at least at the 
feet of even an earthly comforter,” ejaculated the poor 
sufferer as he burst into a flood of tears. 

William Crookshanks was confused, and evidenced 
in his very look that there was something in English’s 


184 


Out from under Ccesar’s Frown. 

words which stung his very soul. Therefore he asked: 
“Friend Edward, dost thou accuse and threaten thy 
father’s best friend?” 

“O no; I neither accuse nor threaten any one,” 
said Edward, while a radiant light began to gather 
about his countenance. “I have felt for the first time 
in my life that no hate, malice, or revenge dwells in 
my heart.” 

Again the wounded man examined the great “ Colt’s , 
revolver ” that he still held in his hand, turned it over 
and over, and then with a parting look which spoke 
volumes, he handed the weapon to Crookshanks as he 
soliloquized: “ Yes, I have been more seriously 
wounded with weapons of my own manufacture than 
by this my own accursed instrument of suffering and 
destruction. Put it up.” 

“Friend Edward,” said the old man, as he laid the 
pistol away, “hast thou at last become a man of 
peace?” 

“Ay, ay,” answered English, “ a man of peace, and 
is it not strange how the lessons of other days, so long 
forgotten, come crowding themselves back into my 
mind? The long ago Sabbath- school lessons at White 
Oak Ridge are as fresh as if learned but yesterday, and 
it is just now that I begin to appreciate their mean- 
ing — ‘Put up again thy sword into its place: for all 
they that take the sword shall perish with the sword.’ 
Yes, I am a man of peace — ‘ Peace I leave with you, 
my peace I give unto you: not as the world givetli, 
give L unto you. Let not your heart be troubleil, 
neither let it be afraid.’ My precious mother taught 
me that long years ago, and I feel like a little child 
living over again those happy days of childhood’s 


Edward English Bescued. 


185 


innocency. O how she shuddered as she looked upon 
that accursed instrument of bloodshed bn that bright 
Sabbath morning when I last pressed her frail form 
to my bosom. I wonder if she yet lives? ” 

“Nay, my son,” said the old man as he produced 
the letter written by the mother on her death-bed. 

English read it. His lips uttered faintly: “Inas- 
much as ye did it”— “it is so dark — take me to my 
mother.” 

The patient fell back exhausted on his crude couch 
as the last sentence fell from his lips. The loss of 
blood, the shock of the revelation, and the pain from 
the wound, together with the great spiritual excite- 
ment under which he had been laboring, proved too 
much for his well- wrought frame, and he had swooned 
under the great pressure. 

Crookshanks hastened to his side and sponged the 
wounded man’s face with the cold, x^ure water of the 
mountain spring. There was no evidence of suffer- 
ing in that open countenance, peace was written on 
every lineament of that heaven-lit face, coruscations 
of divine light seemed to play upon and over it as the 
beams of a summer day’s morning sun dance uj^on 
the bosom of a joyful earth. 

The effort to revive Edward English was effectual. 
Again he opened his eyes and quietly thanked his 
nurse. There he lay under the shadow of the great 
rock, the very embodiment of peace, humility, and 
meekness. In a moment of time the whole trend of 
his life had been changed because the Rock of Ages 
had overshadowed him and the dove-like spirit of 
truth had entered and -had filled to overflowing his 
once vacant and bleeding heart. 


186 


Out from under Cmsar Frown. 

Lulled in the countless chambers of the brain, 

Our thoughts are linked by many a hidden chain; 
Awake but one, and lo! what myriads rise! 

Each stamps its image as the other flies. 

A seed of divine truth learned at AVhite Oak Ridge 
long years ago had lain dormant in the heart for lo 
these days and years, but now germinates even amid 
these troubles and afflictions that press so heavily upon 
the wounded man — Put up again thy sword into its 
place: for all they that take the sword shall perish 
with the sword.” Mysterious providence! that plants 
the seed, and then evolves after successive years the 
circumstances and conditions that awaken those as- 
sociations that lead to repentance and faith in the 
twinkling of an eye. But after all 

More things are wrought by prayer 
Than this world dreams of. 

A pious mother had died gasping a prayer for her 
wayward son, and the prayer — heaven had answered 
it in due season, and all is now well, despite the storm 
of trouble that howled about that frail mother’s path- 
way. 

Thou Framer of the light and dark. 

Steer through the tempest thine own ark; 

Amid the howling wintry sea, 

We are in port if we have thee. 


CHAPTEE XXII. 
The Parting Interview. 


Awhile she stood, 

Transformed by grief to marble, and appeared 
Her own pale monument! but when she breathed 
The secret anguish of her wounded soul, 

So moving were the plaints, they would have soothed 
The stooping falcon to suspend his flight, 

And spare his mourning prey. ’ — Fenton, 

T HEEE weeks after the occurrence of the events 
recorded in the last chapter William Crookshanks 
and^Edward English sat under the great shelving 
rock, engaged in earnest conversation. 

“ I will not go,” exclaimed English, with an unusual 
degree of emphasis. 

“But, friend Edward, they are hunting thee as 
Saul sought David among the mountains of Judea. 
Wilt thou foolishly put thy life into the hands of thy 
enemies? We may reach the line of march of the 
mighty Sherman as he crosses the State, and thus our 
countrymen will protect our lives. Do you see, 
friend Edward, it is the only way of safety? ” persua- 
sively pleaded Crookshanks. 

“I cannot believe,” protested English, “that there 
is a single denizen of The Dismal, except Dick Ivey, 
who would harm a hair of my head.” 

“Then thou dost doubt the word of thy father’s 
best friend; for I have told thee that I heard only 
yesterday, at the house of the sick man to whom I 
minister, that the whole community believe you to 

( 187 ) 


188 Out from under Ccemr’s Frown. 

have been in league with a mysterious appearance 
that from time to time has frightened the people of 
The Dismal. They say you are a conjurer^ and that, 
should you ever again make your appearance among 
them, they will kill^ou,’. reproachfully replied Crook- 
shanks. 

“Ah! is that the trouble?” exclaimed English, as 
he smiled at the old man’s ignorance of the fact that 
his night walks and demency was really the ground of 
the people’s absurd conjectures. “I will set them 
right on that point, and convince them that I am not 
a wizard.” 

“Thou art heady, friend Edward; thou gavest thy 
parents much trouble. Dost thou know that when 
ignorance and superstitious prejudiceare oncearciused 
they become a mighty tide, against which no man can 
battle with the. hope of victory? The Son of God 
himself fell before their proud waves. Canst thou 
stay their onward march? Thou art over-confident. 
Thou speakest as a child.” 

This pointed utterance on the part of the half- 
dementated old miser had the effect of silencing for 
the time the tongue of his companion. Edward sat 
for a time, watching the shadows of the clouds chase 
each other across the forests of The Dismal, and just 
as a flood-tide of light burst forth from under a large 
black cloud, and bathed the entire valley in a sea of 
glory, putting smiles upon frowning rocks and laugh- 
ter in every waving tree-top, sweeter music in the 
throat of every gurgling stream, and gilding even 
stern Csesar’s brow with a crown of joy, he declared, 
while simultaneously a brighter light broke from his 
own countenance: “I will this night ask the advice of 
one who is deaTer to me than life.” 


189 


The Parting Interview. 

The words were a soliloquy, born of intense mental 
agitation and addressed to no one, but containing a 
resolution stronger than life. Ah! the problem was 
wisely solved; for God has decreed from the begin- 
ning that “ it is not 'good that man should be alone,” 
and the “ helpmate ” provided for every time of troub- 
le and perplexity, by merciful Omniscience, is wom- 
an. The heaven-commissioned angel who must un- 
ravel every tangled skein, and dissipate every complex 
problem, and banish the unutterable loneliness of this 
life, is woman. Edwin Arnold has truthfully said: 

Not in the swaying of the summer trees. 

When evening breezes sing their vesper hymn; 

Not in the minstrel’s mighty symphonies, 

Nor ripples breaking on the river’s brim, 

Is earth’s best music; these may have awhile 

High thoughts in happy hearts, and carking cares beguile. 

But even as the swallow’s silken wings. 

Skimming the water of the sleeping lake, 

Stir the still silver with a hundred rings. 

So doth one sound the sleeping spirit wake 
To brave the danger and to bear the harm — 

A low and gentle voice, dear woman’s chiefest charm. 

What wiser course, therefore, could he adopt than 
to sit at the feet of love’s unerring counsel? Much 
indeed of true manliness consists in listening to the 
advice of those who love us. I would rather have the 
decision, in the most difficult problem, of a woman who ' 
loves me than the calm and mature judgment of the 
wisest philosopher. 

Again he spoke, turning away this time from the 
western sun’s beams that continued to kiss every jut- 
ting crag and waving tree; and, addressing Crook- 


190 Out from under Ccesar^s Frown. 

shanks, who sat silent and moody farther back nnder 
the granite roof of their improvised dwelling-place: 
“ I will go with you if Jerusha Grant says it is dan- 
gerous for me to remain in The Dismal.” 

“ Thou wilt have thine own way, friend Edward, 
but let not a mountain lass’s smiles beguile thee. Thy 
father’s friend will watch while thou tarriest, and 
greet thy coming again. Shades of thy father and 
gentle mother be thy guardian angels, and deliver 
thee safe into my hands again, ready to depart at 12 
o’clock to-night!” solemnly spoke the old, care-worn 
man. 

The western, sun was now coquetting with earth’s 
loveliest scenes, throwing good-night kisses from his, 
far-away couch. His lingering glances seemed loath 
to leave for one night the enchanting scenes of his 
day’s ministrations. Already the night birds, impa- 
tient because of his prolonged, lingering smiles, were 
beginning to dart from the crevices of the towering 
crags; and the deep bass and melancholy cries of the 
great gray owls were coming up from the darkest 
valleys, and echoed from crag to crag as if scores 
were answering each other. The tinkling bells, sus- 
pended from the necks of mountain kine, told of their 
homeward walk; the lonesome low of cattle and the 
pathos-burdened bleat of the fleecy sheep proclaimed 
the day’s end, even if the western sky werO unwilling 
to admit the decree of stern, inexorable law. Yes, 
the day was passing away. The most impressive, 
though least observed, scene which nature affords is 
that of the death-throes of a beautiful day. 

Edward English picked his way along the precip- 
itous declivities of Cjnsar’s great pedestal, and was by 


191 


The Parting Interview. 

no means unconscious of the rural sounds that were 
borne aloft on every passing breeze, and of the inde- 
scribable scenery that greeted his eye no matter 
which way he looked. Was he listening to the med- 
ley of sounds that came up from the dark valley for 
the last time? Would this, the super best workman- 
ship of nature’s God, ever again greet his eyes ? What 
will be Jerusha’s decision? As these questions spon- 
taneously rose in his mind his pulse beat faster, and ^ 
he became unconscious of the pain from his throb- 
bing wound. 

The full-orbed moon peeped up, anon, from behind 
the great cliffs and threw long shadows across his 
pathway; fitful gusts of wind swept around the crags 
and through the branches of the trees; the deep bass 
mutterings of far-away thunder greeted his ear; the 
black skirts of clouds began to sweep forward like 
battalions of soldiers rushing into line of battle. It 
seemed that earth was angry because day was gone. 
“Is this an omen of what awaits me? ” thought Ed- 
ward, as he hastened onward toward the little cabin 
in Caesar’s lap. “ Thy will be done,” he gasped, just 
as the dim outlines of the place of his destination 
struggled through the darkness and greeted his eyes. 

At last he stood before the door and knocked for 
admittance, just as the storm was beginning to sweep 
the earth with its terrific violence. The door swung 
gently back upon its hinges. Tom Grant stood with 
one hand resting upon the wooden door-latch, while 
the other hung listlessly by his side. His eyes were 
dilated, and he was speechless with amazement. El- 
vina Grant threw up her hands in horror, as she ex- 
claimed, transfixed to her chair in the chimney’s cor- 


192 


Out from under Ccesar^s Frown. 

ner: ‘‘Is it liis sperit?'" Just then Edward stepped 
upon the threshold, and a beautiful form and a face 
pale as death with grief swept forward with almost 
noiseless tread from the rear portion of the little 
room. 

“No, mother,” exclaimed the soft, musical voice of 
Jerusha, “not a spirit, but Edward himself.” They 
met and grasped each other’s hands, while their lips 
trembled with emotion and tears of joy flowed down 
their cheeks. Their hearts* were so full that the lips 
were not competent to speak the volume of their mut- 
ual joys. There she stood, the maiden beautiful in 
simplicity and perfected under nature’s unerring tui- 
tion. As she stood unadorned by art, the more un- 
fortunate yet more accomplished may well envy her 
lot. 

She never feels the spleen’s imagined pains, 

Nor melancholy stagnates in her veins; 

She never loses life in thoughtless ease, 

Nor on the velvet couch invites disease; 

Her homespun dress in simple neatness lies. 

And for no glaring equipage she sighs; 

No midnight masquerade her beauty wears, 

And health, not paint, the fading bloom repairs. 

She led the unexpected visitor to a chair, and while 
the storm raged without he unfolded to them the mys- 
terious occurrence which they supposed had resulted 
in his death. At the conclusion of his narrative Je- 
rusha breathed a prayer of thanksgiving, while Elvi- 
na Grant, having gained a measure of composure, 
ejaculated: “Ther’s more trouble bound to come, for 
a whip-poor-will come an’ hollered right in the aidge 
of the yard to-night; an’ night afore last a screetch- 
owl come an’ perched right on top of the house, an’ 


The PartliHj Intervieir. 193 

screetclied all night long; an’ trouble’s bound to fol- 
low.” 

“I hope not, mother,” said Jerusha. “You know 
times have changed very much since you were young 
and learned the signification of omens, and that change 
necessarily involves an alteration in all signs and 
omens.” 

These words were spoken, as may be seen, as an 
apology for the ignorance and superstition of the 
mother. “ But all people,” she observed, turning to 
Edward English, “ are more or less superstitious; and 
it is wonderful,” she said with a tremulous voice, “ how 
the people of The Dismal have associated you, Ed- 
ward, with the apparition on the cliffs, and they even 
imagine that you are somehow or other an evil spir- 
it; ” and then, dropping her soft voice to a lower tone, 
she said: ,“It is not safe for you to be here, Edward; 
for the people would kill you instantly, if they were 
to lay hands on you.” 

“ Why, what harm have I done?” inquired the ex- 
Union soldier. 

“No harm at all, Edward,” responded Jerusha; 
“ but it is not always necessary to do wrong in order 
to become the subjects of prejudice and malice. And 
again,” pleaded Jerusha with those persuasive tones 
which woman alone is capable of uttering, “ you must 
know that Dick Ivey is your mortal enemy. He, to- 
gether with a Confederate deserter named Hamby, 
has lost no opportunity to sow seeds of deadly hate 
against you in the hearts of the people. He has alsp 
discovered, by some means, that you are the man 
whom he killed between the lines, as you have heard 
him boast; and every one believes you to be none 
13 


194 Out from under Ccesar^s Froun, 

other than a mysterious deserter, in league with the 
ghost.” 

The soldiers were daily returning from the bloody 
fields of confiict. Four years of camp life had made 
many of them reckless. The pungent remorse of 
coming defeat and the wreck of their little mountain 
farms, from inattention and the robberies of desert- 
ers, who had killed their cattle and stolen the scanty 
produce of their little farms, cultivated for four long 
years by the hands of their faithful wives and 
daughters — these things, together with the bitter tales 
of hardships, deprivations, and sorrows from the lips 
of their wives and children, begat within the hearts 
of many brave soldiers a degree of desperation and 
recklessness rarely seen. One may therefore imagine 
the dangers that beset Edward English, a deserter 
from the enemy’s ranks; and this state of feeling, so 
prevalent in The Dismal, was fed and aggravated as 
oil feeds the flame, by the wonderful descriptions of 
“ the ha’nt,” and the garnished accounts of the talis- 
manic power of English, whom they believed either 
to have been in co-operation with ‘‘ the ha’nt ” or to 
have been the real old night-walker himself. ‘‘Why,” 
said they, “ he can thess all but put life in a dead 
bird, an’ can thess do any thing a sperit can do.” 

The wonderful tales born of superstition and igno- 
rance, and winged with prejudice, flew, like hideous 
night-birds, to the four points of the compass, and 

The flying rumors gathered as they rolled; 

Scarce any tale was sooner heard than told ; 

And all who heard it added something new, 

And all who heard it made enlargements too; 

In every ear it spread, on every tongue it grew, 


The Parting Interview, 195 

till at last the name of Edward English became the 
synonym for all that was diabolical and ghostly. The 
smoldering fires had indeed belched forth, and in 
three weeks they had wrapped in splendor diabolical 
every crag and cove and valley of that picturesque 
region; and now the unfortunate lover must flee for 
his life, and he hears that sentence pronounced by 
one who would have given her life in defense of his, 
and who would have undergone any deprivation for 
his sake. 

He was taking his departure, to return some time 
it might be, but he was leaving conscious of the fact 
that he had impressed his intellectual make-up upon 
two members of that household. The only gift from 
a mother’s hand, slipped into his pocket on that bright 
Sabbath four years ago, when he looked upon her for 
the last time — a little pocket Bible — yet remained 
among his scant possessions. As dear as it was to 
him now, since his conversion, he must part with it. 
He planed it in Jerusha’s hand, and bid her read its 
precious pages and follow its counsels. Ah! there is 
no gift too precious for that cause or that purpose or 
that person in which we have a loving interest. The 
great heaven-born force which is at last to break down, 
dispel, and utterly exterminate the last vestige of self- 
ish prejudice and narrow-minded individualism, is a 
liberal investment of our means and even ourselves 
in the wants and interests of others. He will never 
forget her in whom is literally invested every hope of 
his life. 

At a late hour, and amid the dying wails of the 
storm they parted. 


193 


Gut from under Ccesar’s Froirn. 

Farewell! There is a spell within the W'orcl; 

Methinks I never heard it sound so mournful. 

O, thou subdued, oft scarce articulate sound, 

How powerful thou art! how strong to move 
The hidden strings that guide us puppet mortals! 
Pass-word of memory, of by-gone day — 

Thou everlasting epitaph — is there 
A land in which thou hast no dwelling-place? 

Wherein may be nor pageantry nor pride, 

Nor altars, save the pure one of the heart; 

Nor tombs, except for sorrow; and no tears? 

There is a world, 0 God, where human lips 
May say “ Farewell ” no more 

Jerusha stood, with heaving bosom and streaming 
eyes — poor, alas! too poor to place one sonvenir in 
the hand of her lover, save a curl clipped from her 
waving locks; and then, plucking from her shapely 
hand a ring carved by Edw'ard’s own hand, she said: 
“Take it, and wear it for me till we meet again.’ 
Then, casting her eyes upward, she beheld from the 
threshold upon which she stood the hoary, blanket- 
clad form of William Crookshanks, standing upon 
the overhanging crag, keeping watch like a sentinel. 
“ Yes, take it,” she urged; “ and I will keep the other 
See, your guardian awaits your coming.” Again she 
urged her lingering lover: 

You must be gone. 

And I shall here abide the hourly shot 
Of angry eyes ; not comforted to live. 

But that there is this jewel in the world 
That I may see again. 

Edward stepped out into the darkness, and stood 
for a moment like one who 

Has lost his way, and no man near him to inquire it of; 

Yet there is a Providence above that knows 


The Fartliuj Intercieiv. 

The roads which ill men tread, and can direct 
Inquiring justice. The passengers that travel 
In the wide ocean, where no paths g,re. 

Look up, and leave their conduct to a star. 

Be of good clieer, homeless one: 

Though long of wind and waves the sport, 
Condemned in wretchedness to roam, 

The storm is dying, and 

Soon shalt thou reach a sheltering port, 

A quiet home. 


CHAPTEK XXIII. 

The Scenes Shift. 

The birds, against the April wind, 
riew northward, singing as they flew ; 

They sang: “The land we leave behind 
Has swords for corn-blades, blood for dew.” 

“ 0 wild birds, flying from the South, 

AVhat saw and heard ye, gazing down?” 

“We saw the mortar’s upturned mouth, 

The sickening camp, the blazing town ” 

— Whittier. 

E DWAED ENGLISH bad not left the cabin door 
a moment too soon. The apparition, standing on 
the peak overhanging the house, had been observed 
by other eyes than those of Jerusha Grant as she 
stood on the door-step urging her lover to be gone. A 
brave soldier, who had just returned from the bloody 
fields of battle a few days previous to the occurrence 
of which we are writing, beheld the strange figure 
standing motionless upon the granite crag; and, hav- 
ing heard the story of Edward English, as told by 
the inhabitants of The Dismal, hastily collected, by 
passing from house to house, a party of old soldiers, 
and immediately set out for the little cabin in which 
the Grants lived, determined to kill the deserter on 
the spot, should they find him, as they conjectured 
that he would be at the home of the Grants. 

Edward English had just passed the spot wdiere ho 
had received the almost fatal wound from Dick Ivey, ^ 
and was clambering along the almost perpendicular 
(198) 


199 


The Scenes Shift, 

sides of the great mountain, when he was accosted by 
the familiar voice of the old Quaker: “Ah! friend Ed- 
ward, thou art a heady youth; and the danger from 
which thou hast escaped, if thou wilt be prudent, is 
great indeed. Follow me, my ward, lest a ball pierce 
thee through and through, and I will show thee thy 
danger.” 

Thus addressing English, he took the large white 
blanket from his shoulder, and, compactly folding it 
under his arm, he led the way along the sides of the 
mountain to the crag upon which he had stood, like a 
ghostly sentinel, only a few moments ago. 

“ Now, friend Edward, keep thy tongue, and stand 
here with me, in the dark shadow of this rock; and I 
will show thee that thou art not safe while thou tar- 
riest in this fair Southland.” 

The full moon lit up The Dismal with an effulgence 
that rendered every object in the vicinity of the cabin 
visible; and the voices of its inmates in conversation, 
as well as their footsteps across the uncarpeted floor, 
could be distinctly heard from where they stood. The 
road leading up to the cabin could be clearly traced 
through the forest for some distance, and in certain 
places its barren bed could be seen through the parted 
trees. 

“Now keep thy eye on yonder clear spot in the 
road, just beyond the ravine, and tell me dost thou see 
any signs of IHe,” whispered the old man, as they 
took their places under the dark shadow of the 
rock. 

Edward looked in the direction indicated; and as 
he watched he beheld one figure, and anon another^ 
cross the opening with rapid step, bearing huge army 


200 Out from under Ccesar^s Fro IV n. 

muskets, from whose muzzles had doubtless sped 
many a death missile, and whose long barrels glittered 
in the moon’s beams like silver. The men seemed to 
be congregating in a piece of heavy woodland near 
the ravine, and as Edward English beheld them gath- 
ering, one after another, he could not but be impressed 
that they designed some mischief, and that he was 
doubtless the object against whom their designs were 
formed. But how could they have received intelli- 
gence of his visit to Jerusha’s liome? Ah! not only 
had the old “cliff- walker” been observed at his old 
post, but even Edward English himself had been 
seen on his way to the cabin. Dick Ivey and James 
Hamby beheld him, and had crouched behind a great 
rock as he passed within a few feet of them. There- 
fore the news had spread over The Dismal as fast as 
the swift feet of excited men could carry it. 

The party of mountaineers at last filed out from 
the cover of the forest, and marched up the road to- 
ward the “cabin in Caesar’s lap.” Their silent tread 
and glittering guns, their determined demeanor and 
fixed bayonets, all betokened the danger that awaited 
the victim of their hate, should they apprehend him. 
Edward English looked at them, and his pulse beat 
faster as he beheld their onward march. At length* 
they reached the cabin and surrounded it. Four men 
stepped from the ranks and entered the cabin. After 
thoroughly searching it, they returned to their com- 
panions and held a council. The two watchers under 
the shadow of the rocks could distinctly -hear their 
voices, and thus enter intelligently into their delib- 
erations. 

A hardy mountaineer excitedly ejaculated: “I be- 


The Scenes Shift, 201 

lieve the hluc^coat coward is in that house, and we’ll 
have him or burn down the house over his head.” 

“I tell you,” declared another, ‘‘we have searched 
every corner of the house, and he is not there. They 
say he’s gone.” 

“Gone where?” came simultaneously from fifty 
throats. 

“ Don’t know,” replied the searchers. 

“AYe’ll soon see,” vociferated Dick Ivey, some- 
what intoxicated. “Let’s smoke the wolf from his 
den.” 

“ Pull down the house!” roared a score of voices, as 
the crowd began to move nearer the little cabin. 

Just at this crisis Jerusha appeared in front of the 
little house that had sheltered her from her infancy, 
and that was dear to her because it was her home. 
Her slender form was drawn up to its greatest height; 
her flaxen curls played in the brisk breeze about her 
shapely shoulders; her cottonade garments fluttered 
about her graceful form; in her hand she held her 
father’s trusty old rifle; determination was written on 
every lineament of her beautiful face. As she thus 
stood, with the mellow beams of the full-orbed moon 
falling upon her person, she looked like an angel in 
earthly apparel and engaged in worldly strifes. 

The mob comes to a halt. There is silence in their 
ranks. She speaks: “ My father, gentlemen (if I may 
address you by that title), sleeps to-night on the battle- 
field. He gave more than either of you to his coun- 
try. He left us this legacy [pointing to the cabin], 
and I will defend it with my life. Edward English is 
our friend. He is not here. You will never lay your 
hands upon him; but if you attempt to burn or pull 


202 Out from under Ccesar^s Frown, 

down my home, I will shoot down the first man who 
touches it.” 

A murmur of suppressed applause arose from the 
' ranks of the mob, now at a stand. In the excitement 
Edward English unconsciously moved forward from 
the shadow in which he was concealed, and stood upon 
the very verge of the overhanging precipice, in the 
full light of the pale moon. In the midst of the ex- 
citement he would, however, have remained unob- 
served, had it not been for the old Quaker, who, awak- 
ing from a spell of moody reflection which had rendered 
him unconscious of what was going on around and be- 
neath him, and perceiving English’s position, he cried 
out in stentorian voice, that echoed through the valley 
beneath him like a clap of thunder: “Ha! hal^my 
ward! art thou a fool?” 

All eyes were immediately turned toward the cliff 
whence came the voice, just as the old Quaker was 
rushing to the side of English. Fifty muskets were 
simultaneously raised; there was a flash of fire, and 
then the reports of the heavy-charged weapons died 
away in faint echoes among the distant hills. 

Was he killed? Listen; from among the towering 
crags comes the answer to Jerusha’s ear, as she stands 
like a statue with upturned face, while the breech of 
the old rifle rests upon the ground; and her figure, 
slightly inclined, rests supported by the long barrel, 
which she grasps with both hands: “Ha! ha!” 
coldly and ghostly laughs the old Quaker; “thy bul- 
lets are flattened against the rocks, and Edward En- 
glish is safe.” 

Fainter and fainter grows the sound of his demoni- 
acal voice, as he and his companion climb the steep 


203 


The Scenes Shift, 

walls of Csesar’s fortresses, until it is at last lost in 
the distance: “Farewell, gloomy depths of The Dis- 
mal! Thou hast faithfully concealed my ward, and 
now thy children would devour him. Hal hal fare- 
well! ” rolled back among the last utterances, like a 
dying echo; but these demoniacal chatterings brought 
welcome news to Jerusha: Edward was safe. 

The mob quietly dispersed. There was evidently 
a spirit of fear and superstition brooding over them. 
As they walked away, many affirmed that they actu- 
ally saw the ghost of the cliffs rise on great white 
wings like an eagle, bearing along with him English, 
as that noble bird bears aloft its prey; but one utter- 
ance brought to them a volume of consolation, and 
that word was “Farewell.” If the old cliff- walker were 
true to his utterance, the inhabitants of The Dismal 
would now rest easier, and their quiet slumbers would 
no more be disturbed by his unearthly screams. But 
the impression, alas ! that Edward English was a spir- 
it was now thoroughly confirmed in the minds of the 
people. 

The little cabin and its inmates were avoided by 
nearly every denizen of that dark valley. Dick Ivey 
and James Hamby, like wild animals, sought their 
den, and the former day after day sought relief from 
his burdens in the illicit whisky which his compan- 
ion distilled. 

The Grants retired, after the attack by the mob; 
and as the belle of The Dismal dreamed of smoking 
muskets and angry soldiers, the one sparkling setting 
to the dark scene was that Edward English had es- 
caped the fearful vengeance which the mob had de- 
termined to wreak on him. 


204 Out from under Ccesar's Froicn. 

While Jeruslia thus dreams the old Quaker and his 
ward are leaving far behind them the picturesque 
scenes of their former habitation. 

They traveled a westward course, skirting the 
north-western boundaries of The Dismal, crossing in 
their retreat from the enraged populace the tri- 
pronged head waters of the beautiful Saluda ( “ Corn 
Eiver,” as the name means in the soft, sweet language 
of the Cherokees), and passing the perpendicular 
wall of picturesque Table Bock, lifting its bare side 
of solid granite eleven hundred feet above them, as 
they groped their way among the immense rocks that 
lay scattered here and there at its base, they reached 
the foot of that tallest sentinel of the lines, Mount 
Pinnacle, towering three thousand four hundred and 
thirty-six feet above their heads. At the base of this 
conic pile they stopped for awhile to rest their weary 
limbs. The moon was fast dropping behind the great 
craggy heights in their rear, and the long shadows of 
the gently swaying trees, as the stiff breeze bent 
them to and fro, suggested to English’s mind, as he 
looked upo]?. their silent and stealthy motions, 
thoughts of the subtle movements of the artful and 
crafty Cherokee who once inhabited the wild and 
magnificent tracts of scenery by which he was- sur- 
rounded. The train of thought passing through his 
mind had touched that secret spring of superstition 
hid away somewhere in every man’s nature, and he 
was conscious of shrinking back to hide himself from 
the shadows. The shriek of some wild animal, fol- 
lowed by the report of a gunshot in their rear, caused 
him to spring to his feet and look wildly around him. 

‘‘ That was but the cry of a catamount, friend Ed- 


205 


The Scenes Shi/f, 

ward,” said the old Quaker; ‘‘but the shot thou 
heardest in the Dismal tells us that we must move 
onward.” 

Without replying to the remark of his companion, 
Edward English resumed his flight from the angry 
populace, and was followed like a shadow by his 
guardian. 

At daylight they had put at least twenty miles be- 
tween them and their foes, and stood upon one of 
the high hills overlooking the beautiful vale of the 
Keeowee ( “ Biver of Mulberries ” in the Indian 
tongue). English was not ignorant of the historic 
interest that clusters about this obscure valley ; and, 
as he stood for the first time and looked upon the 
beautiful landscapes about him, he was impressed 
with the capacity that the Cherokees must have had 
to appreciate the beautiful in nature; for here they 
reared one of their largest towns. Here lived that 
tribe of the Indian race which has left its impress 
upon so many streams of the old Palmetto State; and 
so long as her rivers murmur a synphonious requiem 
to the ashes of the quietly sleeping and almost pre- 
historic past, so long will they also continue to pro- 
claim in accents as soft as the murmur of their wa- 
ters, and as enduring as their granite falls, the poor 
Iifdians’ appreciation of the beautiful. Here lived 
those red men who first named the State “ Chico! a ” 
(“The Place of the Eox”), who called the tortuous 
Enoree the “ Eiver of Muscadines ” (as the name sig- 
nifies), and who, marking the meandering course of 
the Santee as its eddy waters rolled lazily through 
the cypress swamps of the low country, called it (as 
its name means) the “Snake’s Trail.” 


206 Out from under Ccesar^s Frown. 

But we may not thus digress; suffice to say that 
these softer scenes in nature, upon which English 
now looked, helped him to bear the burdens that were 
crushing his heart. May they not be prophetical of 
sweeter years to come than any that have ever yet 
crowned his life? As he and his companion turned 
away from the vale of the Keeowee and directed their 
steps toward the capital of the State, such thoughts 
at least filled the heart of the fieeing lover. 

Thou loveliest of earth’s valleys, fare thee well ! 

Nor is this parting pangless to my soul. 

Youth, hope, and liappiness with thee shall dwell. 
Unsullied nature hold o’er thee control. 

And years still leave thee beauteous as they roll. 

O I could linger with thee ! yet this spell 
Must break e’en as upon my heart it stole. 

And found a weakness there I may not tell — 

An anxious life, a troubled future claims me ; fare thee well. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

Shipwreck. 


And now, lashed on by destiny severe, 

With horror fraught the dreadful scene drew near. 
The ship hangs hovering on the verge of death ; 
Hell yawns, rocks rise, and breakers roar beneath. 
In vain, alas! the sacred shades of yore 
Would arm'the mind with philosophic lore; 

In vain they’d teach us, at the latest breath, 

To smile serene amid the pangs of death. 

Even Zeno’s self and Epictetus old 
This fell abyss had shuddered to behold. 

Had Socrates, for godlike virtue famed. 

And wisest of the sons of men proclaimed, 

Beheld this scene of frenzy and distress. 

His soul had trembled to its last recess. 

O yet confirm my heart, ye powers above. 

This last tremendous shock of fate to prove; 

The tottering frame of reason yet sustain. 

Nor let this total ruin whirl my brain! 

In vain the cords and axes were prepared. 

For now the audacious seas insult the yard ; 

High o’er the ship they throw a horrid shade. 

And o’er her burst in terrible cascade. 

Uplifted on the surge, to heaven she flies. 

Her shattered top half buried in the skies; 

Then, headlong plunging, thunders on the ground. 
Earth groans! air trembles! and the deeps resound 
Her giant bulk the dread concussion feels. 

And, quivering with the wound, in torment reels. 
Again she plunges. Hark ! a second shock 
Tears her strong bottom on the marble rock. 

Down on the vale of death, with dismal cries. 

The fated victims, shuddering, roll their eyes 

( 207 ) 


208 


Out from under Cwsar^s Frown, 

In wild despair, while yet another stroke 
With deep convulsion rends the solid oak; 

Till like the mine, in whose infernal cell 

The lurking demons of destruction dwell, ‘ 

At length, asunder torn, her frame divides. 

And, crashing, spreads in ruin o’er the tides. 

— W. Falconer. 

SHIP driven by the winds, with broken spars and 



il inasts, npon the treacherous breakers, presents a 
fearful picture. Life is very much like the sea. It 
is storm-swept, and beneath its glassy surface there is 
frequently hid immense rocks, shoals, and quicksands, 
around which lie in wildest confusion, like broken 
ship material, ruined hopes, disappointments, and 
dead men’s bones, telling indeed of many a sad wreck. 
He, therefore, who dares undertake a voyage across 
the troubled waters, where the storm god revels in 
his thunder chariot, ^without chart or compass, will 
inevitably meet with eternal disaster. The most ex- 
pressive words in any tongue, when considered in the 
light of all their pent-up meaning and their vast ap- 
plications, are “drifting” and its kindred term, 
“driven.” 

Dick Ivey learned their fearful import, literally 
and experimentally, as thousands in every age have 
done. The deserter’s habitation was but a fitting 
school for he]]; and the first draught of James Ham- 
by’s whisky neutralized and dissipated, while its effects 
lasted, the troubles that threatened to hopelessly in- 
gulf the life of the poor wretch whose plans had 
proven so shamefully abortive. Prom day to day, 
therefore, the thoroughly foiled man sought to bury 
all of his disappointments in the fiowing bowl. 

Is there not, therefore, a fearful philosophy underly- 


Shi pier eck, 209 

ing the fact of the permitted existence of wicked men, 
other than the long-suffering and merciful attributes 
of God? Why was Dick Ivey accidentally thwarted 
ill- his determination to stain his own hands with his 
life-blood, and spared to even a worse course? May 
we venture to assert, in the light of revealed truth, 
that he was not yet fitted for his place in the nether- 
most world. The hand that pens this sentence trem- 
bles at the thought; yet it is driven along the page 
from a conscientious belief that such is the truth. 
What means those inspired declarations wherein it is 
asserted that the cup of iniquity of nations and indi- 
viduals was not and is not yet full? AVhat deep and 
unfathomable truth, if it is not so, underlies the Mas- 
ter’s affirmation of failure to reclaim the Jews from 
their stubborn and willful perversion of truth, when 
lie said: “Fill ye up then the measure of your fa- 
thers?” 

May we not affirm that the sufferings of hell do not 
proceed from a source external to the sufferer? that 
he carries in his own soul the elements of the nether- 
most pit, and that therefore men are fitted for that 
dark abode by passing through those diabolical fitting 
schools which are to be met with everywhere in life? 
Otherwise, why do they exist? May we not go a step 
farther, and say that the excruciating pains of the 
bottomless pit consist largely in consummated desire 
and appetite, with no possible chance of gratifying 
them; and, therefore, that hell is not the same to all 
who are so unfortunate as to be turned into its dismal 
abodes? not the same, I mean, relative to the charac- 
ter of punishment? Of course all suffer to the full- 
est degree of their capacity. Is not so much revealed 
14 


210 Out f rom under Coesar 's Frown. 

in tlie parable of the rich man and Lazarus? Are 
there no lessons in the fact that the two richest men 
of Bible times are brought face to face in different 
states ? Is there not the bitterest dart of lost oppor- 
tunity to the sufferer growing out of this very fact? 
Is there no lesson in the truth that the poorest of 
men once lay at the gate of the one, and now pillows 
his head on the bosom of the other? Ah! this is the 
rich man’s hell ; not that of the poor inebriate, gam- 
bler, or libertine. 

Is there not a proof of the declaration which I have 
made in the frequently misquoted words of Christ: 
“Where their worm dieth not, and the fire is not 
quenched?” Therefore it is seen that the punish- 
ment of hell varies as men’s appetites -and passions 
differ. It is “where their worm” — their peculiar 
carnal desires — cultivated to the highest possible 
pitch here on earth, dieth not. Nevertheless they re- 
main ungratified. 

Therefore I trust that I have at least showm the 
possibility of great underlying principles other than 
the mercy of God, which may have deterred Dick 
Ivey from his premeditated crime. The devil had 
other training schools through which he must pass. 
Indeed, in that school of crime in which Dick Ivey 
drowned his sorrows Satan has a variety of shops, 
varying in so-called respectability from the palace 
bar to the little dug-out on the mountain side, thence 
to the “ fifth-class dive,” where a number of his Sa- 
tanic majesty’s clerks stand in the livery of hell, to 
serve — politely or impolitely, as the case demands — 
the woe-burdened devotees of the king of the nether- 
most pit, and thus fit them for their own apartments 


Shipivreck. 211 

in the nethermost basement of his infernal habita- 
tion. 

Therefore to warn men, like a light-house built 
upon the treacherous breakers, the awful finale of the 
devotee at the shrine of Bacchus is photographed 
upon the pages of revealed truth: “At the last it bit- 
eth like a serpent and stingeth like an adder.” “Thine 
eyes shall behold strange women, and thine heart 
shall utter perverse things.” “ Yea, thou shalt be as 
he that lieth down in the midst of the sea, or as he. 
that lieth upon the top of a mast.” 

The nautical caption, then, of this chapter, wherein 
the utter wreck of a human being is depicted, is not 
inappropriately chosen. Dick Ivey, broken off from 
the objects to which his faith faculty tied him, is at 
sea. He drinks to drown trouble ; he drinks to satis- 
fy appetite; he drinks because it alone hushes the 
cry of stinging conscience. What a fearful picture! 
A poor, tempest-tossed body and soul, swept thither 
upon the sea of passion! Look! he sinks into the 
troughs of the sea! Now he is borne upon a mighty 
wave of despair! Mark his bony fingers as they 
clutch the greenish foam about him. He starts, and 
rises up from his storm-lashed couch; his blood- 
shot eyes stand out from their bony sockets; his 
thin, mobile lips quiver with the intense agony that 
racks his body, grown prematurely frail through 
fearful excesses. Now you seem to read some re- 
mains of purpose and decision in his pale face. The 
will seems to be feebly trying to assert its supremacy 
over warring appetites. He looks up from his briny 
couch, as if feebly imploring help and salvation from 
the fangs of the serpents and harpies that beset him 


212 


Out f rom under Ccesar^s Froivn. 

on every side. But behold! Is it a mere dream? or is 
there reality in it? There seems to drop noiselessly 
down over the awful scene two cherubim. They part 
their wings from over their faces; they appear to 
gather their spotless robes about their forms, that the 
murky billows may not stain them. They hover a 
moment over the scene, with anxious faces and ex- 
tended arms. He seems to recognize them; his lips 
move. Mother, father F Slowly the accents fall upon 
the murky atmosphere about him, and the muscles of 
his bony countenance twitch and quiver as if some 
awful convulsion shook his wasted frame. They tell 
of the struggle going on within his heart. 

But behold again! Out of the cruel waves of un- 
restrained passion and appetite there arises on sooty 
pinion the drink fiend. It places the cup to the quiv- 
ering lip of the suffering devotee. The cherubim 
cover their faces and depart; the voice of the strug- 
gling will is hushed; and poor, inebriate Dick revels 
again in the midst of the boiling, seething waters. 

But mark yonder swelling wave, swept onward by 
the hottest blast of hell! Behold the besotted creat- 
ures that prey upon human fiesh and blood, and that 
devour human souls as they writhe in this oncoming 
billow of unrestrained passion! On and on it comes, 
freighted with despairing and lost mortals and bound 
for the coast of Apollyon. It sweeps over the poor 
inebriate, and as it rolls aw^ay you hear Dick Ivey’s 
ghost-like voice from the very midst of the wave: 
‘‘They have stricken me, . . . and I was not 

sick; they have beaten me, and I felt it not. When 
shall I awake?” And at last, as the billow disgorges 
its victims into the bottomless pit, you hear, amid the 


Shipwreck, 213 

fryings and hissings of its spray; “I will seek it yet 
again.” 

Thus poor Dick Ivey met his self-imposed doom. 
Life was a failure because there was no cable to hold 
him to the heavenly and divine. A wreck forever on 
a lake of fire! 


CHAPTEE XXV. 
Pandemonium. 


ILLIAM CEOOKSHANKS determined to join 



w the Union army under Gen. W. T. Sherman, 
then on his memorable march to the sea. Therefore 
he and his companion made Columbia, Carolina’s fair 
capital, their objective point. 

They reached the doomed city just as the Union 
soldiers were amassing upon the opposite side of the 
Congaree Kiver. The city was in the state of wildest 
confusion. The very atmosphere seemed to be im- 
pregnated with a foreboding sense of the doom that 
awaited the devoted namesake of America’s unfortu- 
nate discoverer. The line of march from Savannah 
to Columbia, with its smoking ruins, its devastated 
farms, its impoverished and homeless people, told 
plainly enough of what awaited the capital of the Pal- 
metto State, esteemed, as she generally was, the hot- 
bed of secession and the Mecca of the State rights 
party not only for South Carolina, but in some degree 
for the entire Confederacy. 

If she was worthy, however, to wear that honor, she 
paid dearly for it, and may be very justly and honor- 
ably crowned as a martyr for the cause for wdiich she 
was burned at the stake. 

On the 16th of February, 1865, William Crook- 
shanks and Edward English walked, unmolested, the 
streets of the city that was so soon to pay the penalty 
of death and utter extinction for the part which she 


( 214 ) 


Pandemonium. 


215 


took in the defense of Southern rights. The broad 
streets lined with elms and majestic oaks, palatial res- 
idences almost buried by towering magnolias and ever- 
greens, shaped by the gardeners’ shears into cones, 
squares, globes, arches, and indeed every figure, could 
not fail to attract the attention of these two North- 
erners who had been accustomed to look upon crowded 
cities and more sterile scenes. 

The populace hurried hither and thither; magnifi- 
cent coaches, with the ebony-hued driver in his ele- 
vated seat, thundered along the broad streets. They 
attracted the attention of Edward English, for while 
he had walked the streets of great cities and had fre- 
quently observed the carriages of the great and 
wealthy, he had never before beheld the Southern 
slave urging his master’s steeds along streets which 
were really but a synonym for picturesque beauty. 
The coachmen sat in their seats with a grace and a 
suave bearing alone peculiar to that class of Southern 
slaves. These old coachmen were the aristocrats of 
their race; they imitated the polite bearing of their 
masters, and were apt to imbibe any peculiar trait or 
idiosyncrasy which distinguished their owners, so that 
if one were familiar with the master he might know 
to whom the coachman belonged by his mannerisms. 
They, as a class, are now extinct, but on the 16th of 
February, 1865, as their coaches thundered along the 
streets of the old capital that was, as they sat in their 
seats with an air of a king who had conquered c^id 
was celebrating his victory in triumphal procession, 
with a spirit as calm as a summer evening’s sunset, 
and with a loyalty to the master and mistress rivaled 
only by that of the faithful spaniel to his owner, they 


216 


Out from under Cwsar^s Frown, 

could not but make the impression on Edward English 
that they would make to-day upon the younger chil- 
dren of their old masters were it possible for them to 
behold them. 

“Is this Southern slavery of which Abolitionists 
have spoken and Northern poets have sung in verses 
burdened with blood and groans? Is this the foulest 
blot upon American civilization ? ” Thus thought Ed- 
ward English as he wandered along the streets and 
marked the slave’s devotion to his master, even while 
the stars and stripes floated over the blue* columns of 
the great masses of soldiers who came to_be their, 
friends and whose lines were but a few hundred yards 
away. He had, hitherto, seen but little of that insti- 
tution which had been painted in such horrid colors; 
he had been lead to believe by the speeches he had 
heard and the books he had read upon the subject 
that the groans of the slave under the ever falling 
lash in the master’s hand were ever ascending in vol- 
umes awful to hear to the God of justice. These im- 
pressions were dissipated, and the young Northerner 
w^as doubly impressed w'ith the fact that many of his 
Anglo-Saxon countrymen were really subjected to a 
more galling bondage than that of the Southern ruegro. 
In the ranks of tlie blue columns that lined the ma- 
jestic Congaree he knew that there were many who 
had seen harder phases of human life than any sable 
son of Ham that walked the spacious breadths of Car- 
olina’s rice and cotton flelds or that served a master’s 
will .around the magniflcent homes that were then 
greeting his eyes. I have said so much because 
Northern writers would fain impress even the children 
of Southern slave-holders that the institution of slav- 


Pandemonium, 


217 


ery, as it existed in the South, was fraught with every 
degree of barbarity and crime; the son myself of a 
Southern slave-holder and having had my earliest as- 
sociations formed amid the scenes of plantation life 
under the economy of the old South, and having 
spanned the bloody chasm of war and disruption, and 
living as I am to-day amid a new order of things, I 
am in a position to say that no country has ever been 
more grossly misrepresented than the fair land which 
I have the honor to claim as the cradle of my nativi- 
ty and in whose soil rests the ashes of my Huguenot 
progenitors. The reader will pardon this digression, 
for it is born of what Edward English saw, and he 
shall yet have more convincing proofs. 

Thus passing the day amid the rush and excite- 
ment that prevailed, the two companions laid them- 
selves down at night-fall to rest in one of the superb- 
ly furnished sleeping-chambers of a deserted palatial 
home. But could Edward English sleep? The din 
of the camp just across the river, and the unbridled 
license of a triumphing soldiery, as they moved like 
specters among their innumerable blazing camp-fires, 
and shouted epithets too awful to greet the ears of 
even the profanest, together with the tumult of a 
doomed city, drove all sleep from his eyes. In those 
menacing shouts and threats he read the death-knell 
of the fair city along whose streets he had spent the 
day wandering in a state of enchanted amazement 
and abstraction. 

Tlie day-king as he- peeped through the window 
lattice and gilded the richly furnished apartment 
with a flood tide of splendor proclaimed to English 
the birth of February 17, 18G5. But he had scarcely 


218 Out from under Ccesar Frown, 

proclaimed that memorable day when his effulgent 
glory was obscured by a passing cloud. A sad proph- 
ecy! In that silent apartment where the innocent 
slumbers of some Southern beauty had up to that 
time remained undisturbed, where as just a few mo- 
ments ago, the beams of the day-king had morning 
after morning silently crept through the vine-covered 
lattice and had hastened to get the first kiss of inno- 
cent beauty’s cheek, now, alas! chronicled his disap- 
pointment by veiling his beaming face with an angry 
cloud. “A sad prophecy indeed! ” soliloquized Ed- 
ward English. He almost fancied that amid the aw- 
ful silence of that deserted apartment, whence even 
the sun in sorrow and disappointment has just with- 
drawn his smiles, as was the case in hundreds of Co- 
lumbia’s homes, he could almost hear the rustle of 
invisible crape. 

“Ah! if God veiled the sun when his Son suffered, 
surely he will not let the effulgent face of the day- 
king behold the destruction of this fair city.” So 
thought Edward English as he arose from the soft 
couch upon which he had tried to sleep amid the per- 
plexities that filled his mind. 

And so it shall be. It is decreed in the council- 
chamber of heaven, that if fair Columbia is to fall as 
a martyr for a ji^t though “Los’t Cause,” the- sun 
shall not behold the tears of her daughters; and it 
was so. 

On that day, never to be forgotten so long as 
Americans read the pages of the history of the bloody 
struggles of an opprej^ed South for her inalienable 
rights, the Mayor formally surrendered the unpro- 
tected “ city to Colonel Stone, commanding a brigade 


Pandemonium, 


219 


of the Fifteenth Corps, and claimed for its citizens 
the protection which the laws of civilized war always 
accords to non-combatants.” But alas! after repeat- 
ed promises of protection from the invading foe, the 
destruction of the city had been predetermined. No 
human pen can justly describe the scenes that were 
enacted on that ever-after historic spot on that fatal 
day. Edward English was a silent observer of much 
that occurred. Before he left the apartments where 
he had spent the night it was entered by a lieutenant 
and several privates. 

William Crookshanks had just finished packing up 
in a more compact bundle the many papers which he 
was so careful to preserve that he might deal justly 
with his ward, and thus in some measure atone for 
much, as he doubtless thought, which he had done 
contrary to every principle of equity and justice, 
when the little party of marauders entered the apart- 
ment. 

The tall, muscular lieutenant and his little party 
stopped a moment and looked the two inmates full in 
the face, and then broke out in an uproarous laugh, 
while the lieutenant remarked: “ Quack, quack, found 
your gosling in a downy. Southern nest, have you?” 

“Thy persecution of a man of peace ill becomes 
thy emblems of office,” quietly observed the old 
Quaker, as he proceeded to roll up the bundle of pa- 
pers and place them in the oil-cloth sachel that he 
carried suspended from his side. 

“A man of peace, and first to the spoils, eh? Hand 
me that bundle, old crazy.” 

“ Though I am a man of peace. I’ll die by this bun- 
dle,” replied the old man with some spirit. 


220 Out from under Cwsar^s Frown. 

A scowl came over the face of the lieutenant, and 
with the quickness of the flash of a thought he drew 
his sword from the scabbard and thrust the old man 
through the heart. The old Quaker fell upon the 
plush carpet, grasping even in the throes of death the 
bundle of papers which embodied every hope of his 
life for time and eternity. Ah! many a man in calm- 
er times has thus gone down to the grave basing his 
hope of salvation on what he hopes to do by way of 
reparation for ill-gotten gain and unjust deeds, yet 
never actually does it. 

Edwgrd English sprung forward and caught the 
arm of the beastly lieutenant, but too late, alas! to 
break the force of the blow. The murderous wretch 
turned upon English with uplifted blade; but some 
unseen power arrested the blow, and the blood- 
stained weapon fell from his hand upon the floor. 
The two men stood looking each other in the face. 
English broke the silence that ensued. 

“Ned Arnold, don’t you know that there is a prov- 
idence which will avenge such uncalled for acts of 
violence? AVliat harm has AVilliam Crookshanks ever 
done you? The bundle which you demanded is made 
up of his own private papers, of no value to you nor 
to any one else but him.’’ 

“ Why did he not say so, then ? ” replied the lieu- 
tenant. “ I supposed it contained valuables which the 
old man of peace had pilfered from this house, and 
which justly belong to those who have fought for the 
Union, and not to men of peace, nor deserters.” 

“Ned Arnold, the valuables you speak of belong 
neither to soldiers nor other persons; they are private 
property,” retorted English. 


Pandemonium, 


221 


“As a deserter,. Ed English, you may consider 
yourself under arrest. Take yonder seat; and if you 
move, you do it at the risk of your life. Be quiet, and 
we’ll show you what is private property and what is 
not.” 

English obeyed the lieutenant, and sat a silent ob- 
server of what took place. 

“ To the spoils, my lads!” exclaimed the lieutenant, 
as he ripped open the large feather bed upon which 
the murdered man and his companion had attempted 
to sleep the previous night, and emptied its contents 
upon the floor, searching in vain for hidden treasure. 
Next they tore up the carpet, emptied the contents of 
the wardrobe and drawers upon the floor, ransacked 
every nook and corner; and, then, as if angered by the 
failure to find jewelry and plate, they smashed the 
mirrors, broke to pieces the furniture, and left their 
prisoner to survey the ruin which they had wrought. 

Such were the scenes that took place in hundreds 
of vacated houses all over the city during that event- 
ful day. Houses were ransacked, furniture was de- 
stroyed, ladies were insulted. The awful scenes grew 
blacker as night approached. It seemed that Satan 
himself would have grown sick in contemplating the 
scene. There is but one word that approximately 
conveys the idea of the fearful ravages that obtained 
upon every hand, and that word has but few earthly 
affinities — it was pandemonium. 


CHAPTEE XXVL 
Pandemonium and Fire. 

T he hate and animosities of contending armies 
reached a climax in the burning and plundering 
of “ The City on the Congaree.” Perhaps no instance 
of civilized warfare so nearly approximates this atro- 
cious blot upon the pages of American history as “the 
barbarous excesses of Wallenstein’s army in the Thir- 
ty Years’ War, and which, even at that period of the 
world’s civilization, sullied the fame of that otherwise 
great soldier.” On the 17th day of February, 1865, 
when the Mayor of Columbia surrendered the city to 
an officer of the Northern army, thousands of defense- 
less men, women, and children were put under the 
protection of the triumphing columns of men who 
wore “the blue.” If they, or if any member of that 
army set fire to the city, which had been the hot- bed 
of secession, we have no hesitancy in declaring that 
it transcended nefarious criminality to burn homes 
over unprotected heads; for he who betrays a trust 
committed to his hand, especially where helplessness 
and innocency are involved, sinks to the lowest level 
of gross brutality. 

It is not our purpose to discuss the burning of South 
Carolina’s capital relative to fixing the responsibility 
of the crime on any man or on any set of men. The 
sad fact, however, must ever blot the pages of our 
country’s history. Columbia was burned to the 
ground on the evening following its surrender. The 
( 222 ) 


Pandemonium and Fire, 


223 


writer well remembers having been led by the hand 
of a kind father, who had just returned from the 
camps of the Southern soldiery, out into the darkness 
on that historic night to an unobscured eminence 
whence we beheld, at a distance of seventy-live miles, 
the awful glare of the burning city, playing over the 
southern sky at 10 o’clock at night like aurora bo- 
realis. 

“O what makes it?” was my childish inquiry. 

I shall never forget the tremulous tones of his voice 
as he replied: “ Columbia is burning.” 

It was the death-knell of Southern hopes, and with 
its ashes were mingled the bitter tears of thousands 
of patriotic sons and daughters of the Southern Con- 
federacy, who had already been orphaned and wid- 
owed by the cruel hand of war, but this was the “ un- 
kindest cut” of all. 

No true and patriotic son of American soil does not 
sigh when he thinks of this awful tragedy of the clos- 
ing scenes of that great civil struggle in which our 
fathers bled and died. No loyal son of our common 
country, North or South, can stoop to so low a plane 
of unpardonable meanness as to hurl back and forth 
criminating and recriminating innuendoes over the 
ashes of the burned city. We can but hang our heads 
in shame and declare: “Caesar frowned, and it was 
done.” 

“The Fair City on the Congaree” had been used as 
a great store-house for the safe-keeping of the valua- 
bles of Southern men. From the endangered cities 
of the Southern coasts of the Atlantic, from the smok- 
ing and devastated hills and valleys of Virginia, and 
from many an inland town and city all over the South 


224 Out from under CcBsar*s Frown. 

plate, jewelry, specie, and valuable pianos and furni- 
ture bad been sent to Columbia for safe-keeping. The 
vaults of her banks were full, and many private houses 
became places of deposit for distant friends. But 
Caesar shook his gory locks over the devoted city; and 
not only were many made homeless, but the effects of 
the calamity were felt to the extremest borders of our 
fair land. 

The richly stored city burned to the ground, and 
Edward English looked upon the awful scene. He 
had during the day secured a hasty burial for William 
Crookshanks. And now, having secured about his 
person the papers of the murdered man, he walked 
unmolested amid the awful glare of the flames. 
Homeless mothers and children swept shrieking along 
the streets, or wept over their burning homes. The 
thief and scoundrel wrought their fiendish deeds. The 
low and debased danced amid the red glare of the de- 
vouring flames like incarnate devils. Caesar frowned 
more bitterly than ever before on American soil. It 
was “ fire and pandemonium,” the climax of the hor- 
rors of civil strife and bloodshed. 

Among the swaying masses that swept hither and 
thither English ever and anon beheld the tall, fiend- 
ish figure of Ned Arnold. Now he snatches a brooch 
from the bosom of some fair 'Southern belle, again he 
tears a watch from the belt of some matronly figure, 
then he pulls the jeweled ring from the shapely hand 
of a weeping maiden. But mark the scoundrel! See, 
he grasps the locket that hangs from the pure white 
neck of a beautiful woman clad in the weeds of wid- 
owhood! She shrieks and follows him. 

“0 pray, sir, give me back the locket! It contains 


Pandemonium and Fire. 


225 


the only picture I have of my poor husband, whose 
body sleeps on the bloody field of Gettysburg. Give 
me the photograph then, and keep the locket,” she 
pleads; but alas! with no avail. The hard-hearted 
criminal thrust the poor woman from him, and she 
hid -her beautiful and sorrowful face in her hands, 
while her slender body quivered with grief. 

Edward English placed his hand upon the revolver 
that hung at his side, with the determination of 
shooting the ghoulish robber through the heart, but a 
voice within whispered, as it had once before: “Put 
up again thy sword into its place; for all they that 
take the sword, shall perish with the sword.” 

The robber walked away, looking for another op- 
portunity to ply his dark deeds. Edward English 
grew faint, and almost reeled in his tracks as he 
turned away from the sickening scene and made his 
way toward the eastern suburbs of the city. He de- 
termined to look no longer upon the awful occur- 
rences which he was powerless to prevent. 

The night, with its groans and tears, its crimes and 
tragedies, passed away ; and in the early morning, En- 
glish, having pushed his way eastward, looked back 
toward the burned city. The smoke ascended as from 
a thousand furnaces, and hung in one great, black 
cloud over the spot where once stood many a palatial 
dwelling. As he looked upon the great, black mass 
of smoke that hung like the pall of midnight over 
the spot where once stood the martyr city, he convul- 
sively gasped: “The crape that covers ten thousand 
naked sorrows! ” 

Several days after the burning of Columbia, while 
Sherman’s army was at Cheraw, S. C., Edward En- 
15 


226 Out from under Ccesar^s Frown. 

glisli stood at the depot at Florence, S. C., and 
watched an engine, to which was attatched a freight- 
car, as it came rapidly down the track from toward 
Sherman’s head-quarters. When it rolled into the 
little station, several determined-looking men came 
out of the old car bearing along with them no less a 
l)erson than the robber lieutenant, Ned Arnold, the 
murderer of William Crookshanks. He was hand- 
cuffed, and around his neck was tied a rope by which 
he was led forward. The agonies depicted upon his 
countenance were awful to behold. 

He had lingered in the wake of the army, and had 
been captured by Southern soldiers while plying his 
dark deeds. His end was near. They led him away 
toward the swamp, where he paid the penalty for his 
black crimes. Verily, “All they that take the sword, 
shall perish with the sword.” (See “ Rise and Fall of 
the Confederate Government,” Yol. II., pp. 716, 
717.) 

From this point English made hi§ way to that 
beautiful portion of the State that lies along the east 
bank of the Great Pedee; from among the papers 
'which had fallen into his hands at the death of Will- 
iam Crookshanks was the old land grant made to 
his ancestors who had first settled in what was then 
known as Welsh Neck, and who afterward moved 
thence to Pennsylvania. It was mere curiosity to see 
the place where his progenitors had struggled with 
the hardships incident to the colonization of a coun- 
try that directed his steps to that section of the Pal- 
metto State. 

Once within its bounds, he was delighted with its 
broad cotton-fields and rich soil. He determined. 


Pandemonium and Fire, 


227 


therefore, to make it his home — at least to remain 
there until the times should become more peace- 
ful. 

He therefore hired himself to a Mr. Addington, a 
large planter on the Pedee. He unfolded to his 
employer the history of his past life, and by his dili- 
gent attention to whatever was committed to his hands 
he soon won the confidence and respect of not oi;ily 
Mr. Addington, but of all with whom he came into 
contact. 

Here he remained, but no day ever passed over his 
head that he did not think of the aerie in Caesar’s 
lap, of its inmates, and of his affianced. 

He had beheld the war-clouds floating away into 
the dark vista of the past; he had felt the sting of 
two bullets as they penetrated his body; he had read 
the faded letter from a dying mother’s hand, and had 
learned of the death of his father. He had been 
chased like a bear from The Dismal; he had beheld 
the awful murder oi his covetous guardian, and he 
had witnessed avenging justice overtake his ante hel- 
ium companion, Ned Arnold, the man who had raised 
with saber-point the broad-brimmed hat of William 
Crookshanks, as already described, who had rescued 
English after he had been shot, who bore his body to 
the farm-house, and who put the old Quaker on track 
of the missing soldier; but alas! who had plunged 
deeped and yet deeper into crime, and reaped at last 
the legitimate results of a life unrestrained by law 
and order. 

And now, amid the shocks incident to a re-adjust- 
ment of civil law and order, our hero calmly awaits a 
propitious day wherein he may return to The Dismal 


228 Out f rom under Ccesar’s Frown. 

and claim the hand of the hellh of that dark valley. 
Will that day come? or will the keen, shrill yelp of 
misfortune’s blood-hounds, which have followed his 
trail in the past, again bring him to bay amid the 
moss-fringed forests of Peedee’s ample plains? We 
shall see by and by. 


CHAPTEE XXVIL 
Homeless. 

S TOEMS are said to purify the atmosphere. We 
believe that there is a law in the moral world cor- 
responding with, or analogous to that principle in the 
physical world which produces the same result: the 
purification of the moral atmosphere. This law is 
capable of very broad application. Storms of pun- 
gent grief and remorse sweep over the penitent soul 
before that calm peace, born of faith, fills the trust- 
ful heart. Cyclonic waves of affliction seem often- 
times necessary to clear away the moral miasmas 
that poison and debilitate our spiritual manhood, and 
the long looked for era of “peace and good-will to 
men ” was born amid storm scenes that caused men 
to tremble and turn pale. The trembling earth, 
reeling to and fro like a drunken man, and the sun, 
veiling his face with deepest-hued crape of twice 
triple fold, were but symbols of stormier scenes 
within the smaller compass of human hearts. The 
thundering of Sinai chronicled the birth of law, and 
the crashing of worlds amid tempests of devouring 
flames shall precede the purification of the moral and 
physical universe. If God has, therefore, coupled 
the storm king with such events, may we not affirm 
that the same old thunder-breathing monarch will 
yet have a hand in weaving chaplets of peace and 
crowns of prosperity for at least two of Caesar’s sub- 
jects. 


( 229 ) 


230 Out f rom under Ccesar Frown. 

Tlie hurricane-like blasts that swept over The Dis- 
mal on the event of English’s last visit to the cabin 
under Caesar’s frown have already arrested the atten- 
tion of the reader. The morning that succeeded that 
eventful night was inauspiciously ominous. Heavy 
columns of fog marked the tortuous courses of the 
North, South, and Middle Saludas, stretching upward 
from their pellucid waters like impregnable walls of 
purest agate. A tear stood in the red eyes of every 
lichen that clung to the granite blocks that lay in dis- 
order and confusion about the base of the stupendous 
mountains that raised their heads toward the sky. 
The tasseling and aromatic panoply of the primeval 
pines that crowned the rocky declivities watered the 
earth with the copious weepings of their sorrows; and 
when the last, suppressed breathings of the demon 
of the storm troubled their bushy tops, their sad wail 
reproduced in the mind of Jerusha a favorite couplet 
often quoted by English: 

Our sincerest laughter with some pain is fraught, 

Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. 

The sweet-toned forest warbler dared not break the 
sepulchral silence that reigned, for its variegated 
plumage was wet too with nature’s tears. 

Clouds of fog hovered over The Dismal and shut 
out Caesar’s frown, but ever and anon they parted, and 
he, grim-visaged, looked down on his secluded sub- 
jects. As the day advanced the weeping fog goddess 
began to gather up her trailing skirts, revealing 
“crags, knolls, and mounds confusedly hurled,” as the 
poet would say, from the Creator’s hand on creation- 
day without method or design and each saturated with 



t 


N. 






232 Out from under Ccesar^s Frown. 

the tears that the storm king had wrung from every 
twig, leaflet, and .bud of the stunted forests that 
crowned their rocky heights. 

The day sped on, and at last the tardiest skirt of 
fog vanished behind the lofty peaks of the blue 
mountains and the sun bathed the dripping forests of 
The Dismal in flood-tides of genial and mellow spring- 
like sunshine. The Grants had promised a visit on 
that day to a family that lived on the opposite side of 
the valley. They were on their way by the time the 
last fog-cloud had vanished, and having reached their 
destination they spent the day and night with that de- 
gree of pleasure which the memory of those recent 
events already recorded would allow. 

Early, however, on the next morning the trio set 
out on the return trip, planning to go by that some- 
what remarkable phenomenon, ' the “ Grumbling 
Spring.” Having reached the basin in which the 
fountain was, they sat for awhile and listened to the 
melancholy sound of the gurgling waters as they 
struggled up from the dark under-ground reservoirs 
and emptied into the little brook that ran chattering 
and laughing away toward the South. It was a pict- 
uresqe spot, silent, like so many places in the mount- 
ains, as the tomb itself, but the awful quietness of the 
place was relieved as one drew near the spring by the 
noise of the brooklet and the groans of the fountain. 
It impressed an observer with the thought that it was 
the one sacred spot where nature’s groans and sighs 
met and commingled with her joys and laughter. The 
gurgling brook and groaning spring, for thus it might 
have been more appropriately christened, produced 
commingling emotions of joy and sadness in the heart 


Homeless, 233 

of one who listened to their sorrowful wails and hap- 
py songs. 

Looking np from the rock upon which she sat, while 
a tear dropped from her large blue eyes, Jerusha ex- 
claimed: “ O is not this a perfect epitome of our lives: 
groans and laughter?” 

“Let’s go,” said Tom, for boys and men never like 
tears, “ or we will be too late to see the shadow of the 
peacock on the face of the mountain.” 

It was, however, the same sentiment, almost chok- 
ing him, as that to which his sister had given utter- 
ance that caused him to make the proposition to leave, 
rather than the fear of being too late to look upon the 
phenomenon to which he had alluded. 

The trio slowly turned away from the grumbling 
spring and chattering brooklet and wended their way 
in silence toward the face of Caesar’s Head, where at a 
certain hour the shadows of projecting rocks made a 
perfect picture of a peacock. 

There is a sad tradition connected with this phe- 
nomenon. On the banks of Saluda River, which heads 
in The Dismal, about one mile below Ware’s Shoals 
and sixty miles distant from Caesar’s Head, in that 
picturesque portion of Laurens County locally famed 
on account of its high hills, there may be seen a great 
shelving rock, under which the writer has been shel- 
tered from many a shower in boyhood’s piscatorial 
sports, protruding from the left bank as one journeys 
down the stream. . From a crevice at the base of this 
rock gurgles a beautiful little spring of purest water. 
Its clear waters, upon wLich the sun’s rays never fall, 
form a little brook about twenty feet in length, and 
are then lost in the volume of the rushing river. This 



Homeless, 


235 


spring, could it speak, might tell many interesting 
pages of unwritten history, but alas! the things it has 
witnessed, like its pellucid waters, have never seen the 
light. The rock out from under which its waters burst 
forth is locally known as ^‘Peacock’s Rock.” It was 
thus named because a Tory of that name made it his 
hiding-place during the perilous days of the Revolu- 
tionary War. He amassed — by robbery, it is said — 
much gold and silver. His hiding-place was discov- 
ered by the Whigs, however, and he was compelled to 
flee for his life. We may also state in this connection 
that Peacock was one of the seven Tories that mur- 
dered Hawdhorne in Welsh Neck, the particulars of 
which have been given in a preceding chapter. 

He fled with his ill-got gains up the river, and like 
Grant sought the secluded shades of The Dismal as a 
hiding-place. It is said that the Indians, having capt- 
ured him while in The Dismal, took him across the 
mountain, or at least began their march with him in 
that direction. They had not proceeded far, how- 
ever, when Peacock gained his liberty and made a 
rush for life. He was closely pursued by several 
young warriors and a gallant chief. They chased him 
to the brow of the awful chasm at a point near what is 
now known as the “ Devil’s Dining-room.” Here the 
hotly pursued Tory leaped from the edge of the yawn- 
ing precipice to a jutting crag some fifteen or twenty 
feet beneath. When he reached the almost equally 
balanced rock, it tilted somewhat, it is said, toward 
the yawning chasm. The Indian chief, however, de- 
termined not to be outdone by the pale-face, and 
hence leaped after him. The additional weight was 
too great for the swaying rock, and, tearing aloof from 


236 Oat from under Ccesar's Froan. 

the awful precipice, it thundered down, down the diz- 
zy abyss with its victims. 

In its downward rush it broke off jutting crags 
and swept from their resting-places great loose bowl- 
ders, so that the chief and his prisoner were buried 
at the base of Csesar’s gigantic form beneath an ava- 
lanche of rock and earth. The face of the precipice 
as left by this awful tragedy is such as to produce the 
perfect shadow of a peacock just at the hour the 
shocking incident of those dark days occurred. It is 
formed, as has been stated, by a protruding crag cast- 
ing its shadow upon a certain portion of the face of 
the great, bare rock; slowly but steadily the picture of 
the haughty fowl grows to perfection, spreading its 
plumage like a thing of life, and then it passes by de- 
. grebes away. The sight causes the observer to hold 
his breath in silence, for it fills the soul with feelings 
of awe. 

Elvina Grant had rehearsed in cracker dialect this 
tradition to her two children after they had looked 
upon the gradual formation of the remarkable phe- 
nomenon. 

“Where did you say Peacock came from at first?” 
inquired Tom. 

“ Burners away off, frum a river named Pedee, I 
mind hearn your pap say,” replied the mother. 

The sentence had scarcely fallen from her lips when 
a suppressed shriek escaped the lips of Jerusha: “O 
can our house be burning down ? ” 

The mother and son looked toward home, and be- 
held a black column of smoke shooting up above the 
tree-tops which concealed the little cabin. The man- 
ly form of the brave son sped away like a deer to- 


Homeless. 


237 


ward the burning building. The somewhat feeble 
mother and lithe daughter followed in his tracks. But 
alas! when they reached their objective point it was 
only to look upon the smoldering ashes of what once 
was home. The fiendish hand of some incendiary, 
taking advantage of their absence, had applied the 
torch, and they were homeless. 

But even more pungent sorrows await the children. 
They shall be orphans indeed. Elvina Grant had 
been afflicted with heart disease for several years 
prior to the incident of which we are speaking. The 
run, the fright, together with the grief that came 
over her soul, proved too much for her. When the 
poor woman reached the spot and looked upon her 
burned home, she fell to the ground and expired al- 
most, without a struggle. 

Tom and Jerusha looked at each other in utter de- 
spair. For the first time in their lives they felt abso- 
lutely alone in the world. They were homeless and 
orphans. 

But it is not our purpose to tire the reader with 
a record of their grief, nor with every particular of 
the awful scene. Suffice it to say that the neighbors, 
attracted to the scene by the burning building, ren- 
dered every possible assistance; and, after burying 
Elvina Grant under the shadow of Caesar’s colossean 
form, Tom and Jerusha went to live temporarily with 
a kind-hearted neighbor. 

Some weeks after the incident which we have re- 
corded, Tom Grant climbed to the top of the mount- 
ain, and while walking along the brow of the great 
precipice he came to the place of the traditional leap 
of Peacock and the Indian chief. The story, as re- 


238 Out f rom under Ccesar Frown. 

lated by his mother on the afternoon of her death 
came into his mind. This called up the last utter- 
ance from his mother’s lips that ever greeted his ears: 
“ Sumers away off, from a river named Pedee.” 

The sexitence rang in his ears, and as he looked 
away toward the south-east he determined to seek a 
home out from under the shadow of the great blue 
mountains that stretched away toward the east and 
west. He hastened to his temporary home, and in- 
formed Jerusha of his intention. 

“ Why, where will you go? ” inquired the beautiful 
girl, as her large blue eyes dilated with wonder. 

“To Pedee,” replied Tom, with as much assurance 
as if he knew all about the section of country through 
which the river ran. 

“Why Pedee is a river running through eastern 
North and South Carolina. What will you do when 
you get there? and how will you get there? ” inquired 
the beautiful girl. 

“ Work on the farm; and as to getting there, -we can 
walk, if there is no other way,” answered Tom, in a 
spirit that showed how 'firm a hold the resolution had 
taken upon his soul. 

“ We need not walk,” said Jerusha, as she drew 
from her pocket in the folds of her dress a roll of 
bank-bills. “ Mr. English slipped these into mother’s 
hand the night he left us, and begged her to accept 
them as a gift. I did not know of it until the day be- 
fore she died, when she asked me to take care of them 
for her.” 

Tom’s eyes brightened with delight when this bit 
of information fell from his sister’s lips. The pleas- 
ant surprise relative to ways and means filled his heart 


Homeless. 


239 


with gratitude and thanksgiving, while visions of suc- 
cess fired his bouyant soul. 

To cut short a long story, vre may state that Tom 
and Jerusha Grant were sbon domiciled in a comfort- 
able tenant’s house on the plantation of Col. Osborue, 
a wealthy farmer on the banks of the Great Pedee. 
The sum of money was sufficient to meet their travel- 
ing expenses and to scantily furnish their rented 
home Vith the barest necessities of life. Tom worked 
on the plantation as a day laborer, and Jerusha made 
home a pleasant place for the determined youth ; and, 
strange to relate, he tilled from day to day a portion of 
that tract of land that had been owned by his great- 
grandfather, and which had been confiscated after the 
close of the Eevolutionary War. Will Heaven smile 
on the plucky youth? or will the frowns that rested 
upon his fathers follow him to the grave itself? God 
forbid that such should be the case! 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

A Dude of the Slashes. 

T he great public highway running parallel with 
the turbid Pedee, on the eastern 'side of the 
river, cannot fail to be interesting to the intelligent 
traveler. Many bloody scenes occurred along this 
thoroughfare during the Revolutionary War. Mari- 
on, the swamp fox, has many a time swept along its 
marshy distances, on his missions of surprise and de- 
feat to the enemy. Along almost every inch, too, of 
this lonesome highway Whig and Tory contended 
stoutly for the mastery. The predatory warfare of 
the Scotch Tories, whose stronghold was on the Little 
Pedee, illumined the dark forests on either side of 
this historic road with the burning buildings of the 
brave sires who fought for their country’s freedom; 
and many a time the families of these heroic men 
were driven shelterless into the gloomy depths of the 
almost impenetrable swamps. 

Ancient Indian mounds are also found, dotting 
the country here and there at intervals of not very 
considerable distances. This was their happy hunt- 
ing-ground and the sacred tractof country where their 
fallen braves slept in peace beside the silently sweep- 
ing waters of the great river, the murmur of which 
seems yet to be but a suppressed requiem to their 
peacefully reposing ashes. Indeed, many of the im- 
plements of war and the chase^ once used by a now 
extinct tribel are still found scattered over the fertile 
( 240 ) 


241 


A Dade of ilte Slashes, 

fields that ever and anon break the monotony of the 
dreary highway. The handsomely wrought and beau- 
tifully designed jars, vases, jnpes, ovens, and other 
objects which have been taken from these mounds 
demonstrate the factthat this extinct race had reached 
a higher degree of civilization than any of the other 
tribes that figured in the history of the old Palmetto 
State. Why was this so? This chapter may solve 
the problem. 

But there are other objects of equal interest to the 
traveler who pushes his way -along this historic road. 
The plain marble shaft marking the spot where re- 
poses the dust of the heroic Colp; and also showing 
the site where the hardy Welsh settlers reared, prior 
to the war of American independence, the first Bap- 
tist Church in Eastern Carolina; the old church, also, 
where Marshal Ney, long supposed by many histo- 
rians to have been really executed, actually taught 
scdiool for some years after his reported execution in 
France;* the old homestead of Baron Polnitz, who in- 
troduced from Poland that species of nut-grass which 
has since made many of the fertile farms of this sec- 
tion utterly worthless, together with many other ob- 
jects, cannot fail to interest the traveler as he pursues 
his journey along this historic old highway, the mag- 
nificent distances of which are arched by the gnarled 
branches of the willow oak, fringed and draped as they 
are with the long tresses of Spanish moss, that wave 
noiselessly to and fro in tlie slightest breeze. 

All of these things, together with the oppressive 

*The fact that Marshal Ney was spirited away and never ex- 
ecuted has been denied, but tradition stoutly claims that he 
actually taught school at this point after his supposed execution. 

16 


242 Out from under Ccesar^s Frown. 

solitude that prevails in the slashes and swamps 
through which the road passes, almost force the trav- 
eler to think of the historic past. And as the sw'ay- 
ing trees move leisurely their long, crape-like veils of 
moss, and as their shadows move noiselessly over the 
surface of the marshy ground, the lonesome wayfarer 
is almost forced to think of the shades of the depart- 
ed — of the spirits of those who fought and bled and 
died in these wilderness depths. Are their spirits yet 
in the carnage of deadly hate and vindictive strife? 
The journeyman is half persuaded that such is really 
the case as the shadows wane and flicker and vanish, 
and he intuitively craves for a companion if he is alone. 

William Dorsey, an itinerant Methodist preacher, 
was on his way to an appointment for the following 
day on a beautiful Saturday in the month of June; 
and as he pursued his W’ay through the slashes and 
swamps bordering on the fertile lowlands of the Great 
Pedee, over the road which we have just described, 
he overtook a somewhat peculiar-looking and oddly 
attired young man. His hair was coarse, perfectly 
straight, and was as black as jet, while his cheek- 
bones were high and prominent. His complexion 
was nearly as dark as that of a mulatto, but he had 
none of the features of the African race. In fact, the 
characteristics of Indian blood were so prominent 
that his national identity was unmistakable even by 
one who was by no means a connoisseur in ethnology. 

A wreath of roses encircled the young man’s hat 
crown, and a cypress twig waved like a plume from 
the lapel of his coat. He was attired in what was 
evidently his best and gaudiest suit, and was doubt- 
less on his way to the house of some tenant where he 


243 


A Dude of the Slashes, 

meant to spend the following day in efforts to win the 
heart and hand of some fair maid of the slashes who 
had doubtless already smitten his heart. 

The minister, as he scanned the footman from the 
crown of his head to the soles of his feet, thought 
within his heart: ‘‘Surely this is a dude of the 
slashes.” 

William Dorsey, however, glad to have a traveling 
companion, when he came within speaking distance, 
requested the footman to take a seat with him in the 
buggy. The invitation was accepted, and the two men 
were soon engaged in conversation. The minister 
asked the young man his name. 

“Henry Berry Dare,” he replied, “and Tm a Scuff, 
but I’ve been livin’ in ’Coon Slashes for ’bout five 
years.” The young man meant that he was from the 
tribe of Croatan Indians that have a reservation in 
Eobescn County, North Carolina, which reservation 
is known locally by the name of Scuffletown, hence he 
meant to say that he was by birth a Scuffietonian. 

The very name, Henry Berry Dare, sent a dart of 
sorrow and sadness through the good man’s heart, for 
he was not only familiar with the history of the first 
attempts to colonize America, but he had just read 
“Havrk’s History of North Carolina,” and was also 
familiar with “ Hakluyt’s Annals,” and in these works 
had read with much sadness the supposed fate of 
“The Colony,” planted in 1587 at Boanoke by Sir 
Walter. Kaleigh. The minister remembered Gov. 
White’s record of the birth of his granddaughter, 
the first white child born in America. The governor 
wrote: 

“The 18th, Eleanor, daughter of Gov. White, 


244 Out from under Ccesar Frowyi. 

and wife to Ananias Dare, one of the colonists, was 
delivered of a daughter in Eoanoke, and the same 
was christened there the Sunday following, and be- 
cause this child was the first Christian born in Yir- 
ginia she was named Yirginia.” 

“Can it be possible,” thought the minister, “that 
this young man is a descendant of that child? ” 

Henry Berry was the name, as history informs us, 
of one of the lost colonists. Henry Berry Dare ! Had 
the good man Solved one of the dark problems of his- 
tory? 

Gov. White, we are told, returned at the solic- 
itation of the colonists to England, and left his daugh- 
ter, Eleanor Dare, at Roanoke, and she shared the 
fate of “the lost colonists,” whatever that fate may 
have been. “ The Croatan Indians,” we are informed,, 
“visited Roanoke Island,” and had “invited the col- 
onists to reside with them, and the latter, prior to the 
departure of the Governor, expressed to him their in- 
tention to accept the invitation and to remove fifty 
miles ‘ up into the main.’ ” 

“It was” further “understood that if they went to 
Croatan they were to carve the word ‘ Croatan ’ on the 
bark of a tree in some conspicuous place, that the Gov- 
ernor might know where to find them on his return. 
It was also understood that if they left the island in 
distress they were to carve the Christian cross above 
the word ‘ Croatan.’ ” 

Gov. White sailed for England, after thus hav- 
ing agreed with the colonists at Roanoke, on the 27th 
of August, 1587, and the colony which he left was 
never again found by white men. 

When Gov. White returned to the place where 


245 


Dude of the Slashes. 

he had left the colonists, his efforts to discover their 
whereabouts were fruitless, and he speaks thus of his 
search, as published by Hakluyt: 

“On the 15th of August, toward evening, we came 
to anchor at Hattorask in 36 in five fathoms of wa- 
ter, three leagues from the shore. At our first com- 
ing to anchor on this shore, we saw a great smoke rise 
in the isle Roanoke near the place where I left our 
colony in the year 1587, which smoke put us in good 
hope that some of the colony were there expecting 
our return out of England. The 16th and next morn- 
ing, our two boats went ashore, and Capt. Cooke and 
Capt. Spicer and their company with me, with intent 
to pass to the place at Roanoke where our country- 
men were left. At our putting from the ship we com- 
manded our master-gunner to make ready two min- 
ions and a falcon, well loaded, and to shoot them off 
with reasonable space between every shot, to the 
end that their report might be heard to the place 
where we hoped to find some of our people. Our 
boats and all things filled again, we put off from 
Hattorask, being the number of nineteen persons 
in both boats; but before we could get to the 
place where our planters were left it was so exceed- 
ingly dark that we overshot the place a quarter of a 
mile, when we espied toward the north end of the 
island (Roanoke) the light of a great fire through the 
woods, to which we presently rowed. When we came 
right over against it we let fall our grapnel near the 
shore and sounded wn’th a trumpet a call, and after- 
ward many familiar tunes and songs, and called to 
them friendly, but we had no answer. We therefore 
landed at day-break; and coming to the fire, w^e found 


246 Out from under Ccesar^s Frotvn, 

the grass and sundry rotten trees burning about the 
place. From hence we went through the woods to 
that part of the island directly over against Dasa- 
monguepeck, and from thence we returned by the wa- 
ter-side round about the north point of the island, 
until we came to the place where I left our colony in 
the year 1587. In all this way we saw in the sand 
the print of the savages’ feet of two or three sorts 
trodden in the night, and as we entered up the sandy 
bank, upon a tree in the very brow thereof were curi- 
ously carved these fair, Roman letters, ‘C R O,’ 
which letters ere presently we knew to signify the 
place where I should find the planters seated, accord- 
ing to a secret token agreed upon between them and me 
at my last departure from them, which was: That in 
any way they should not fail to write or carve, on the 
trees or posts of the doors, the name of the place 
where they should be seated; for at my coming away 
they were prepared to remove from Roanoke fifty 
miles into the main. Therefore, at my departure 
from them in August, 1587, 1 willed them that if they 
should happen to be distressed in any of those places 
that they should carve over the letters or name a 
cross (t) in this form, but we found no such sign of 
distress. And having well considered of this we 
passed through the place where they were left in 
sundry houses, but we found the houses taken down 
and the place very strongly inclosed with a high 
palisade of great trees with curtains and fiankers, veiy 
fort-like, and one of the chief trees or posts at the 
right side of the entrance had the bark taken off, and 
five feet from the ground in fair capital letters was 
graven, ‘Croatan,’ without any cross or sign of distress. 


247 


A Dude of the Slashes. 

This done, we entered into the palisade, where we 
found many bars of iron, two pigs of lead, four iron 
fowlers, iron locker, shot, and such like heavy things 
thrown here and there, almost overgrown with grass 
and weeds. But although it grieved me much to see 
such spoil of my goods, yet on the other side I greatly 
enjoyed that I had safely found a certain token of 
their being at Croatan^ which is the place where 
Manteo was born, and the savages of the island our 
friends.” 

Manteo, it will be remembered by the student of 
history, was an Indian chief who was made by Sir 
AValter Baleigh “Lord of Eoanoke and Dasamon- 
guepeck.” It is very plain from Gov. White’s sto- 
ry of his fruitless search for the “lost colonists” 
that Croatan lay south of Boanoke, and was, in the 
estimation of Gov. White, on the coast, for we learn 
from Hakluyt that he 'attempted to sail to that 
section of the then unexplored country on the open 
sea. A recent writer says: “It is probable that the 
island mentioned was one of the long islands curtain- 
ing the coast and embraced within the present coun- 
ty of Carteret. It is so located on one of the oldest 
maps, bearing date of 1666. On a map published by 
order of the ‘Lords Proprietors’ in 1671, the penin- 
sula embracing the present county of Dare (North 
Carolina) is called Croatan. Lawson’s map of the 
year 1709 also locates Croatan in the same region. 
The sound immediately west of Boanoke Island still 
bears the name Croatan.” 

According to a secret understanding between Gov. 
White and the colonists, as we have already no- 
ticed, he understood Croatan to be south of Boan- 


248 Out from under Coesar^s Frown. 

oke, for he says: “There Manteo was born, and the 
savages of the island our friends.” 

The Governor, in search for his colony, therefore 
sailed southward, but the storms of Hatteras so com- 
pletely injured his vessels that he was compelled to 
return to England Avithout finding the place where 
the planters had gone. 

Nearly three hundred years passed aAvay, and no 
trace of the unfortunate colonists was found. '‘But 
Lawson, who wrote in 1714, two hundred and tAventy- 
seven years after the “Lost Colony” disappeared, 
says, in speaking of the Indians that occupied that 
very portion of tha country designated by Gov. 
White as Croatan: “The Hatteras Indians, who lived 
on Boanoke Island, or much frequented it, tell us that 
several of their ancestors were AAdiite people and could 
talk in a book, as we do; the truth of which is con- 
firmed by gray eyes being frequently found among 
these Indians, and no. other. They value themselves 
extremely for their affinity to the English, and are' 
ready to do them all friendly offices.” 

In addition to these almost positive proofs that the 
“lost colonists” allied themselves with the Croatan 
or Hatteras Indians, we have the following tradition 
as rehearsed by one of their old men in a speech dur- 
ing the late Avar between the States. The incident 
that led to the rehearsal was this, says an eye-Avit- 
ness: 

“Three young men of the LoAvrie family,” and 
Lowrie was one of the names of the families compos- 
ing the “Lost Colony,” “Avere drafted, according to 
military laAv, to work on the fortifications at Fort 
Fisher, in Eastern North Carolina; and AAdiile on the 


249 


A Dude of the Slashes, 

road to the nearest depot in Kobeson County, they 
were killed, it is supposed by a white man who had 
them in custody. An inquest was held, aud at its con- 
clusion an old Indian named George Lowrie addressed 
the people assembled as follows: ‘We have always 
been the friends of white men. We were a free peo- 
ple long before the white men came to our land. Our 
tribe was always free. They lived in Eoanoke, in Yir- 
ginia. AV hen the English came to Eoanoke, our tribe 
treated them kindly. One of our tribe (Manteo) 
went to England in an English ship, and saw that 
great country. AA^hen English people landed in Eo- 
anoke, we were friendly, for our tribe was always 
friendly to white men. AVe took the English to live 
with us. There is the white man’s blood in these 
veins as well as that of the Indian. In order to bo 
great like the English, we took the white man’s lan- 
guage and religion, for our people were told they 
would prosper if they would take white men’s laws. 
In the wars between white men and Indians we always 
fought on the side of white men. AA^e moved to this 
land and fought for liberty for white men, yet white 
men have, treated us as negroes. Here are our young 
men sjiot down by a white man, and we get no jus- 
tice, and that in a land where our people were always 
free.’ ” 

The minister was familiar not only with the histor- 
ical quotations which we have incorporated into this 
chapter, but the address of the old chronicler of their 
tribe was still fresh in his mind. Could it be possi- 
ble that his traveling companion was really the de- 
scendant of the first white child born upon American 
soil? History and tradition confirmed tliat fact in 


250 Out from under Cwsar^s Frown. 

the mind of William Dorsey, therefore he was glad 
of an opportunity to talk with a dude of the slashes, 
and the conversation confirmed more than ever the 
impression already on his mind that the “ lost col- 
onists,” having despaired of help from England, had 
allied themselves with the Croatan Indians, and that 
these Indians, living to-day upon their reservation in 
Robeson County^ N. C., are the descendants really 
of that colony and the friendly tribe which rescued 
them from starvation and death. 

Other facts confirm the tradition and history which 
we have recorded, but we have reserved them for an- 
other chapter. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 


Lost for Centuries, but Found at Last. 

HE story of the lost legions of Varus has awak- 



1 ened sad emotions in the hearts of many readers 
of German history. The solution by Drusus, who 
found the bones of his countrymen bleaching in a 
dark forest near the restless Baltic Sea, of their mys- 
. terious fate only added a darker shade to the mourn- 
ful story. The ghastly bones of the unfortunate le- 
gions only told of extremest sujffering and the most 
horrible of deaths. 

The “lost colonists,”' it has long been supposed by 
historians who have not taken the pains to fully inves- 
tigate the sad event, shared some such fate; but his- 
tory and tradition do not by any means justify such 
conclusions. In addition to what we have already 
quoted from the oldest records, a recent writer — Hon. 
Hamilton McMillan, who thoroughly investigated the 
fate of the “lost colonists” — conclusively proves that 
at the coming of white settlers there was found lo- 
cated on the waters of Lumber River a large tribe of 
Indians, speaking English, tilling the soil, owning 
slaves, and practicing many of the arts of civilized 
life. They occupied the country as far west as the 
Pedee, but their principal seat was on the Lumber, 
extending along that river for twenty miles. They 
held their lands in common, and land titles only be- 
came known on the approach of white men. The first 
grant of land to any of this tribe, of which there is 


( 251 ) 


252 Oat from under Casar's Frown. 

written evidence in existence, was made by King 
George the Second, in 1732, to Henry Berry and 
James Lowrie, two leading men of the tribe, and was 
located on the Lowrie Swamp, east of Lumber Liver, 
in the present county of Robeson, in North Carolina. 
A subsequent grant was made to James Lowrie, in 
1738. This “James Lowrie, one of the grantees in 
the deed made by George the Second, and recognized 
as a chief man of his tribe, is described as an Indian 
who married Priscilla Berry^ a sister of Henry Berry^ 
the other grantee mentioned. . James Lowrie was a 
descendant of James Lowrie, of Chesapeake, who 
married a Croatan woman in Virginia j as Eastern 
North Carolina is still designated by the tribe, and 
became the progenitor of all the Lowries belonging 
to this tribe. According to the prevalent traditions 
respecting this family, the men were intellectual and 
ambitious, and, as a chronicler of the tribe described 
them, became ‘leaders among men.’ Many persons 
distinguished in the annals of North Carolina are 
claimed as descended from the original James Low- 
rie, of Chesapeake.” Henry Berry, the other grantee, 
“was a lineal descendant of the English colonist, 
Henry Berry, who was left on Roanoke Island in 
1587.” Thus it is clearly seen that historical facts, 
tradition, and every conceivable link of circumstantial 
evidence agree in demonstrating the fact that the 
“ lost colonists ” allied themselves with the Croaton In- 
dians, and their conjoint descendants live at this time 
on the reservation in Robeson County, North Caro- 
lina. This accounts for tjie high order of civilization, 
long a mystery to historians, that obtained (as the 
mounds along the Peedee reveal by their contents) 


253 


Lost for Centuries^ hut Found at Last. 

among the tribes of Indians that lived in these con- 
tiguous sections of North and South Carolina. 

But as the man of God rode along through the 
great Pedee swamp, and conversed with Henry 
Berry Dare, he almost fancied that he was holding 
converse with some Englishman of the days of Chau- 
cer, for this tribe of which Dare was a member speak 
almost pure Anglo-Saxon. 

“ Do you know any thing of the history of your 
tribe?” asked the preacher of his companion. 

“ Why, mon,” said Dare, “ my fayther told me that 
his fayther told him that .his gran’sire said how that 
the Croatans come frum Boanoke; an’ I aks him ef it 
was so, an’ he spoken an’ said how that it wus, an’ 
that the English come to Koanoke an’ built housen; 
an’ that thair people lef them, an’ that our people 
lovend the. English an’ took them, an’ thare’s been 
pese without stryf ever sense with the English.” 

“ Do you know that Virginia Dare was the first 
white child that was born in America, and that she 
was probably the woman from whom you descend- 
ed? ” inquired the preacher. 

‘‘Ay, mon,”_ replied the Croaton, as his eyes spark- 
led with pride, “I’ve hearn that frum the cradel.” 

“ Tell me some of the names of your people,” said 
William Dorsey. 

“ Thare’s Henry Berry, my gran’sire; an’ John White, 
my mother’s uncle; an’ Henry Berry Lowery [after- 
ward famous as an outlaw], an’ Billy Jones, an Tom 
Butler; BiUy Brown, Billy Wilks, Anfny Cage, Toni 
Harris, John Wright, John Cheven, an’ Jim Lasie; an’ 
there’s lots more I don’t mind now,” replied the 
ypung Croatan. 


254 Out f rom under Ccesar^s Frown. 

It is remarkable,” replied William Dorsey, “that 
every name you liave mentioned may be found in the 
list of family names which composed the “ lost colo- 
nists of Eoanoke, and I verily believe that you are a 
descendant^of Virginia Dare.” 

“Ay, mon,” the Indian replied, “but here’s the 
road I mus’ go.” 

The Croatan alighted from the buggy, and was on 
the eve of turning away into a path that penetrated 
the deep forest on the right hand side of the road. 

“Can you tell me,” said the minister, “where I 
may get a good drink of water? ” 

“ ’ Bout half a mile on you’ll come to Tom Grant’s. 
Thare’s the bes’ water on the road. He’s a tender on 
Col. Osborne’s place, an come frum a place in the 
mountens, I’ve hearn they call The Dismul, an’ the 
Curnel give him the bes’ wa,ter on the place.” 

William Dorsey watched the receding form of 
Henry Berry Dare till it was lost among the tall trees 
of the primeval forest, and as it vanished from sight 
he soliloquized: “Ahl^there is many a man in South 
Carolina and elsewhere who would, were it possible, 
give thousands of dollars for your lineage and blood, 
Henry Berry Dare; but alas the picture! You are 
buried in the depths of ignorance and social ostra- 
cism, as the “ lost colonists ” were swallowed up in the 
forests of the new world.” He then tapped his faith- 
ful horse with the whip he held in his hand, and the 
animal moved off in his usual gait, while the minis- 
ter’s mind was temporarily occupied with the last ut- 
terance of the Croatan Indian: “ Tom Grant, . . . 

frum a place in the mountens, I’ve hearn they call 
The Dismul.” 


255 


Lost for Centuries, hut Found at Last. 

The experiences of the night he passed at Dick 
Ivey’s came rushing back into his mind, and he im- 
pulsively gasped, as he looked around the dark cy- 
press forest, the dense foliage of which shut out the 
sunshine: “ From Dismal to Dismal! ” 

He in a little while, Iiowever, reined up his horse 
in "front of the little cabin, where he spent half an 
hour in conversing with its inmates. The sad history 
of his host on that memorable night he spent in The 
Dismal was rehearsed to him by Tom Grant, leaving 
out of course the courtship of the misguided man. 

The visit of the minister was concluded, as was his 
custom, by prayer with the Grants. The good man 
first read a portion of Scripture, and then prayed 
earnestly for the salvation of this way-side household. 
The scriptural lesson made a profound impression 
upon the brave boy. How could it be otherwise? for 
the selection was the one hundred and third Psalm. 
It was the first time Tom Grant had ever heard that 
beautiful and divinely inspired song, and its sweet as- 
surances continued to ring in his ears. 

When the preacher took his leave of the little fam- 
ily, Tom Grant therefore followed him to the buggy, 
and as he shook the good man’s hand he asked: “Mr. 
Dorsey, what does a Bible cost?” 

“Not much of any thing,” answered the preacher. 
“I will bring you one when I pass this way again.” 

The faithful horse carried the itinerant preacher 
out of sight, as he cantered down the historic old 
highway. Tom Grant watched his form till it disap- 
peared, and then went back into the humble cabin to 
nurse the comforting anticipations of possessing a 
Bible in the very near future. 


CHAPTEE XXX. , 

Nether Circles. 

T he last shall be first.” The Bible declares it. 

No fact is more patent to an observer than that 
the npptermost circles of society grow out of the neth- 
ermost. Whence else could they grow? The limit 
of development, notwithstanding much vain specula- 
tion to the contrary, is wisely fixed. Upon every 
thing terrestial may be written, at some period in its 
existence, that expressive word grown. Then begins 
the decline. The only receptacle for the toppling, 
decaying masses thrown off from grown associations 
is, of course, at the base of that vast fabric, the re- 
pository of learning, wealth, culture, and refinement, 
known as society. If a thing fall, it falls to the ground 
— down is its natural course — it cannot fall up, to be 
sure. The decaying limbs, leaves, and trunks of 
the trees of the forest fall only to enrich the soil for 
other and newer growth, so in society the nether- 
most circles form the receptacle for all that falls, and 
contain the seed-germs for new^er and higher forms 
of growth. Good crops and a large yield depend 
upon the improvement and fertilization of the soil 
from which they are grown. Neglect here is disas- 
trous. As long, however, as the husbandman looks 
well to this basal necessity his labors will be abun- 
dantly rewarded. The Church has been slow in learn- 
ing this lesson as applied to the masses. 

Evolution is from above, “which was the son of 
( 256 ) 


Nether Circles, 


257 


Enos, which was the son of Seth, which was the son 
of Adam, which was the son of God.” So wrote Luke, 
the beloved physician. Evolution is from helow, too. 
If this is a paradox it is because it is true, for all 
truth moves along paradoxical lines. Its starting or 
initial force is from above, but to evolve it must enter 
the lowest phases of that fabric wdiich it proposes to 
unfold and lift up. Therefore, the first time the An- 
gel of the Covenant ever appeared to a human being 
was to an outcast, distressed slave mother and her 
perishing babe. Christ revealed himself to the Ha- 
gars in the wilderness and under the bondage of sin. 
He entered society wdiere that complicated fabric be- 
gins to lose itself in poverty and discouragement 
and disease and death. He did so because that which 
is above is conditioned by that which is beneath. We 
cannot make up in cornice what is lacking in mud- 
sill, and Christ knew and demonstrated that fact. 
That eoitering point has by no means become obliter- 
ated by the din of rolling •centuries, but the Church 
has often overlooked it. The glittering ore of the 
Black Hills minifies the priceless jewels that peep 
from tenement-houses that hide in slums, that nestle 
in Caesar’s lap, and that everywhere abide under his 
frown. 

“Lift up your eyes, and look on the fields.” (John 
iv. 35.) Jesus sat on the well. He had just finished 
a discourse, a iew minutes before, about living water. 
It was delivered to an audience of one, and she was a 
dissolute woman. * Stretching away toward the east, 
was the plain— a valley of corn-fields — which would 
be ready for the merry shout of the reaper in four 
months. To the west was the teeming, eager multi- 
17 


258 Out from under Cwsar 's Frown, 

tude pressing forward to see tlie wonderful man sit- 
ting on the well, of whom the woman had said: “Is 
not this the Christ?” Sit to-day with Christ by the 
well of the water of life, and catch the deep meaning 
not only of the utterance that falls from his lips, but 
of the half-concealed symbolisms contained therein. 
A multitude wants to see the Christ who lifted a poor 
woman from the depths of sin and folly. Into yon- 
der corn-field men put their money, energy, labor, and 
the sweat of their brows. “Lift up your eyes, and 
look on the fields,” for the laborers are not commen- 
surate with the demands. A poor, old Chinese wom- 
an said to the missionary, Mrs. Crawford: “Why 
didn’t you come before? My mother would like to 
have heard of this Jesus, but she is dead.” 

“What does a Bible cost?” It was a wail from 
the nether circles. But the answer brought tears of 
gratitude to the unsophisticated youth’s eyes, as the 
minister pressed his hand and bid the questioner 
good-by. 

The humble preacher, seated in his buggy while 
his faithful horse drew him along the smooth, level 
highway, noticed a mellow peep of the sun through 
an opening in the branches of the over-arching cy- 
press and live-oaks, but alas! there came in a moment 
a succession of dark shadows, caused by the swaying 
moss and thick foliage of the overlapping trees ; but 
even through these the bright, spring sun struggled 
and kissed the earth in miniature spots. 

“How like life!” soliloquized the clergyman, 
“ sunshine and shadows! ” Then noticing the bright, 
little dots of mellow sunshine as they danced, waned, 
flickered, and were sometimes completely annihilated 


Nether Circles. 


259 


by tlie fluttering brandies overhead, he chuckled: 
“Why you naughty leaves! you are trying to spoil 
out the sun’s pictures after it has struggled so hard 
to reach the cold earth.” Then, his face assuming a 
more serious expression, he again soliloquized: 
“Life-like, indeed! ‘the Sun of righteousness’ would 
shed his healing rays on every heart, but the vanity 
and selfishness of this world struggle everywhere to 
shut out the light of heaven.” 

This saintly man of God had scarcely finished ut- 
tering the thought which we have just penned, when 
his horse suddenly stopped in a brook that noiseless- 
ly swept across the road, and began to slake his thirst. 
The thickly studded trees, with their great mass of 
interlocked limbs, moss, and foliage, shut out every 
ray of the sun, save in one place on the opposite 
bank of the brook, where a bright sfiot of sunshine, 
almost circular in shape and a foot perhaps in diam- 
eter, trembled as if it were frightened at the dark 
shadows that surrounded it. Near it was a slender 
stalk of grass, bleached white almost from the lack 
of sunshine. The slender and weak stalk bowed 
gracefully toward the bright, quivering spot, and im- 
pressed the beholder with the idea that it was doing 
its utmost to get its bowed head and chilled blades 
within the radius of the little circle of sunlight. 

“I will help you,” impetuously exclaimed the good 
man, as he stood upright in his buggy and with his 
long whip pushed aside a number of limbs and pulled 
away a great mass of moss, letting in a large volume 
of sunshine, which encircled the sickly stalk of grass 
on every side and flashed from the waters of the brook 
as if it had been reflected from a mirror. The reflec- 


260 Out from under Omar’s Frown. 

tioii frightened the somewhat spirited horse, and he 
dashed away at a speed not by any means relished by 
the kind-hearted pastor. The master’s voice, how- 
ever, soon assured the horse tliat there was no danger, 
and the faithful animal assumed again his accustomed 
quiet gait. 

But his master’s trend pf thought was not so 
easily checked. He smiled when he thought of his 
almost silly intervention in behalf of the sickly blades 
of grass. The unexpected effect of the reflection 
upon ^his horse made the little episode all the more 
amusing to the preacher. “But,” said he, for he 
had this peculiarity of thinking aloud as he traveled 
alone on the highway, “ it is our duty to let in sun- 
shine wherever and whenever we can.” 

Then the question of the youth, suggested by the 
great law of the association of ideas, flashed into his 
mind: “What does a Bible cost?” “Ah! a morally 
dwarfed soul struggling for the sunlight of truth,” 
thought the pious man. 

Thus the man of God moved along the lonesome 
highway, meditating about the incident at the cabin. 
Every natural object that arrested his attention drew 
his heart closer to the youth that had left the seclud- 
ed coves of The Dismal, that he might make life a 
success despite the frowns that everywhere shadowed 
his pathway. 

Was there not a providence in it all? Why had 
God put eloquent tongues in grass blades and little 
spots of sunshine on that day? and why had he con- 
nected, in the preacher’s thoughts, all the apparently 
insignificant things and commonplace scenes that 
were observed along the way with the question of the 


Nether Circles. 


261 


poor but determined youth? Ah! i£ a good man 
may be so thoroughly brought into sympathy with a 
struggling grass blade as to interpose in its behalf, 
may we not justly expect God to mediate for the ear- 
nest soul struggling for light? 

“But O the shadows and barriers!” sighed the 
minister, as he reined up his horse before a neat lit- 
tle country residence, and for the time, at least, dis- 
missed the subject from his mind. Alas! it is too 
true that social distinction and iron-clad caste too 
frequently crush out the life of that which is nether- 
most. How beautifully our Saviour has photographed 
this trait of depraved human nature upon the pages 
of the gospel! When the pompous and oppressive 
Pharisees sent officers to apprehend Christ, they re- 
turned, saying: “Never man spake like this man. 
Then answered them the Pharisees, Are ye also de- 
ceived? ” Then rolled from their poison lips that 
withering, crushing, blasting volume of towering, 
frowning, social pride and distinction: “Plave any of 
the rulers or of the Pharisees believed on him?” 
(John vii. 45-48. ) 

Human nature is essentially the same in all ages, 
and there is to-day many a baneful upas that would 
poison all that is nethermost. But Tom Grant will 
triumph. 


CHAPTEE XXXI. 

Swamped, Yet Afloat. 

T he kind-hearted and sympathetic minister had 
swept along through sunshine and shadows for 
about ten miles. The neat cottage before which he 
now stood was the home of David Addington, the em- 
ployer of Edward English. The sun was quietly 
sinking into the west, and that degree of stillness — 
and, I came very near writing, sadness — that is so fre- 
quently observable at country residences at that hour, 
had settled over the house and its surroundings. 
Nature suppressed her breathings. In the distance 
the farm hands could be seen with shouldered hoes, 
slowly wending their way toward the little manorial 
cottage, where the preacher stood awaiting the com- 
ing of the landlord. The stillness was oppressive, 
made all the more so by the fact that there was with- 
in the scope of the minister’s vision motion ivithout 
noise. The company of hands already noticed, to- 
gether with a half-dozen carts approaching from an 
opposite direction, could be seen ; but each was so f ar 
away that the tramp of hoofs and the clatter of vehi- 
cles, together with the hum of conversation, could not 
be heard by the waiting visitor. 

The man of God looked around him, and was for 
the first time impi^essed with the beautiful scene 
which opened up to the observer. The farm-house 
stood in the center of the clearing of perhaps fifteen 
hundred acres. Besides the houses and orchards in 
( 262 ) 


263 


Swamped, Yet Afloat. 

the center, there was not an object that greeted the 
eye within the compass of the opening (I mean no 
fixed object), except the flower-clad cotton-plants that 
stretched away in every direction. This great field 
was in shape a perfect circle. It was completely sur- 
rounded by swamps, out of which grew great cypress 
trees, sublimely fringing the vast circle with a terrace 
of dark green. The horizon touched the tops of the 
cypress trees all around, so that as one looked up and 
thence away toward the circumference, he beheld the 
most beautiful azure canopy stretched by the hand of 
God over the w’hole scene. The red and white blooms, 
together with the dark-green foliage of the cotton- 
i:)lants, made a beautiful carpet for the vast amphithe- 
ater. Around the circumference of the clearing lev- 
ees, or dams of earth, about eight feet high, had been 
thrown up, in order to keep back the waters in a time 
of freshets. Upon these embankments the hedge-rose* 
had been planted. Its thorn-armored branches had 
taken hold of the underbrush of the great cypress 
trees, and thus the entire circumference of the great 
cotton-field was bordered with a profusion of pure 
wdiite blossoms peeping out from the thick green fo- 
liage. Thus nature had beautifully wainscoted her 
great circular building; and now the dome is destined 
soon to be studded with golden stars. These burning 
suns and wheeling planets are never seen till darkness 
comes. As the preacher, looking up, beheld the first 
star that twinkled with delight over the rural scene, 
he thought of the beautiful words of Jean Paul Rich- 
ter: “The earth, like a bird’s cage, is covered with 
darkness every day, in order that we may catch with 
more ease the strains of the higher, grander melodies. 


264 


Out from under Cwsar F rown. 

Thoughts which in the glare of noon seem but smoke 
and mist stand out in the night with all the force of 
a brilliant, flaming light.” 

“How true!” ejaculated the good man, as he con- 
cluded the quotation; “and,” he continued, “there is 
so much darkness and sorrow in this life that we may 
never be lost to the burning lights that God has put 
in the heavens above us. Here is a wonderful field 
for faith, and faith transforms every thin§. Ah!” 
said he, as he gently stroked the black mane of his 
faithful horse, “ every thing that is good and beauti- 
ful comes through faith: 

“ I heard Philosophy sigh, 

‘No rose without its thorn; ’ 

And Faith made sweet reply, 

‘ Of the thorns are the roses born.’ ” 

Just as the minister ceased this bit of soliloquy, the 
stillness was broken by the shrill notes of a rooster, 
which in crowing had set the entire roost, hid among 
the thick foliage of the osage orange-trees, to cack- 
ling with a degree of energy which lively hens are ca- 
pable of exercising. Just then a horseman crossed 
the dam, aild the rider came rapidly toward the cot- 
tage where the minister was engaged in unharnessing 
his horse. It was Edward English, and he was sing- 
ing a hymn that his mother used to sing: 

Onward, onward, men of heaven! 

Bear the gospel banner high ; 

Best not till its light is given — 

Star of every pagan sky ; 

Send it where the pilgrim stranger 
Faints beneath the torrid ray; 

Bid the hardy forest ranger 
Hail it, ere he fades away. 


2G5 


Swamped, Yet Ajioat. 

The beautiful liymn, as its sweet sentiments were 
borne out upon the still evening air by the mellow 
voice of the singer, was taken up by the sable sons 
and daughters of Ham, as they pushed their way to- 
ward the plantation cottage, so that representatives of 
Africa and England joined in pouring forth the sen- 
timents of the second stanza, for the tenants on the 
plantation had heard English sing the hymn so fre- 
quently that they all knew it by heart. Therefore 
the mighty volume of song rolled from swamp to 
swamp, bearing with it these sweet thoughts : 

Where the Arctic Ocean thunders, 

AYhere the tropics fiercely glow, 

Broadly spread its page of wonders. 

Brightly bid its radiance fiow : 

India marks its luster stealing; 

Shiv’ring Greenland loves its rays ; 

Afric’, mid her deserts kneeling. 

Lifts the untaught strain of praise. 

Then the men in the carts, who were Croatan In- 
dians from the colony in the eastern section of North 
Carolina, and who were also tenants on David Adding- 
ton’s plantation, took up the favorite song of their 
overseer and joined in with the last verse; so that 
America, Africa, and Europe, through their repre- 
sentatives, chanted the glorious truths: 

Rude in speech, or wild in feature. 

Dark in spirit though they be. 

Show that light to every creature. 

Prince or vassal, bond or free. 

Lo! they haste to every nation; 

Host on hosts the ranks supply ; 

Onward! Christ is your salvation, 

And your death is victory. 


266 


Out from under Ciesar's Froivn. 

The beautiful coincident almost overcame the good 
man. The crowing of the cock could not but impress 
this student of the Bible with the bitter scenes of Pe- 
ter’s denial of his Master, and by association of ideas 
with the many who deny him to-day; while the song 
could not but impress the commission: “Go ye into 
all the world, and preach the gospel to every creature.” 

The rose-clad dam told the story of the land’s re- 
demption from the angry waters; and the laborers, 
returning at the close of the day with the songs of 
the redeemed, pointed the minister to the wonderful 
gathering that will take place by and by, in our Fa- 
ther’s house above. Ah ! the good man was commun- 
ing with nature, as the Master did; and God was 
teaching him out of his great volume, and impressing 
lessons that others failed to see, because he was jpre- 
pared to be taught. “ There is dew in one flower and 
not in another, because one opens its cup and takes it 
in, while the other closes itself and the drop runs off. 
So God rains goodness and mercy as wide as the dew; 
and if we lack them, it is often because we will not 
open our hearts to receive them.” O that even those 
who profess to believe on Christ might open their 
hearts to God, as he pleads in every dew-drop and in 
every incident in this life! 

How truly has Dickens affirmed: “There is noth- 
ing — no, nothing — innocent or good that dies and is 
forgotten. Let us hold to that faith or none. An in- 
fant, a prattling child, dying in the cradle, will live 
again in the better thoughts of those that loved it, 
and play its part through them in redeeming actions 
of the world, though its body be burned to ashes or 
drowned in the deep sea ! ” 


267 


Su'umpedj Yet Afloat. 

At no time in his past ministerial life had there 
come such an overwhelming determination into the 
heart of the good man to live for the glory of God, 
and for his glory alone, as now, while he stood apply- 
ing the lesson that God had been teaching him dur- 
ing that afternoon. The poor preacher (I mean 'poor 
in this world’s goods) had suffered much during his 
life, but during that year he had perhaps endured 
more deprivations than in all his past life; yet in his 
poverty and suffering he was drawn nearer to God. 
The brightest days grow out of the blackest ones. 
Phillips Brooks has truthfully said that “ there are 
no times in life when opportunity — the chance to be 
and do — gathers so richly about the soul as when it 
has to suffer. Then every thing depends on whether 
the man turns to the lower or the higher helps. If 
he resorts to mere expedients and tricks, the opportu- 
nity is lost. He comes out no richer or greater; nay, 
he comes out harder, poorer, smaller, for his pain. 
But if he turns to God, the hour of suffering is the 
turning hour of his life.” 

This faithful servant of God felt an interest in all 
the teeming millions of the earth more keenly than 
ever before. Was it the question, “WTiat does a Bi- 
ble cost?” that gave such . a trendy to all of his 
thoughts? Ah! he had helped a sickly grass blade by 
the way. 

That was a good prescription given by a physician 
to a patient; “Do something for somebody.” That 
phase of experimental religion which brings us com- 
pletely into harmony with God is like a secret in 
arithmetic— infinitely hard until it be found out by a 
right operation, and then it is so plain that we are 


268 Out f rom under Cwsar’s Froirn. 

amazed that we did not understand it sooner. What 
the Church needs, and what humanity needs, is for ev- 
ery man to do something for the man who is next to him. 
Get in harmony with God, and do all in your power 
to harmonize what there is about you; and then great 
good will flow out from your life. Dean Stanley 
truthfully asserts: “Each one of us is bound to make 
the little circle in which he lives better and happier; 
each of us is bound to see that out of that small cir- 
cle the widest good may flow; each of us may have 
fixed in his mind the thought that out of a single 
houseliold may flow influences that shall stimulate 
the whole commonwealth and the whole civilized 
world.” 

Thus the man of God had been brought into closer 
sympathy with what was close to him, and therefore 
his heart was filled with sympathy for all the world. 
There he stood in threadbare garments, without a 
penny in his pocket, reduced by the cruel war to a 
state of want; yet he was cheerful, and thought not 
of these things, but of those who were starving spir- 
itually. It is too frequently the case that we expect, 
somehow or other, to grow up to a point in Christian 
experience where our prejudices are annihilated, and 
where we will J)© brought into fuller sympathy with 
what we know is our duty. ' But as 

"We pray for growth and strength, grief’s dreaded showers 
JVIay be, in God’s wise purpose, ripening rain; 

He only knows how all our highest powers 
Are perfected in pain. 

The preacher stood holding his horse as English 
rode up to the spot where he was standing. While 
crossing the swamp, English’s horse had bogged, so 


269 


Swamped, Yet Afloat. 

that the rider was covered with mud. In exchanging 
the usual greetings, and iii^ answer to the minister’s 
inquiry after his health, the Northerner replied, 
with a facetious twinkle in his eye: “Swamped, yet 
afloat.” 

“ Then you are like our crippled and fettered 
Church,” answered the preacher, as they walked away 
toward the house. “O how this cruel war through 
which we have just passed has retarded every for- 
ward movement of Christianity! but I feel hopeful. 
‘Swamped, yet afloat! ’ ” 

A smile of peace wreathed the holy man’s counte- 
nance, and he felt that God was with him; and as he 
retired that night — without tiring the reader with all 
that transpired — the utterance of English, spotted as 
he was with the slime and mud of the swamp, came 
back to the preacher: “Swamped, yet afloat.” 

“And the crew is responsible,” said the man of 
God, as he kneeled in prayer. “We want more holi- 
ness of lifart and life, that we may be not only right- 
ed up, but that the membership of our Churches may 
be purged from the mud and malaria of the swamp 
state; for does not St. James tell us that ‘pure relig- 
ion and undefiled before God and the Father is this. 
To visit the fatherless and widows in their affliction, 
and to keep himself unspotted from the world?’” 
Thus, meditated the good man, as he committed him- 
self to the care of God for the night. : 

“Swamped, yet afloat,” was the first utterance of 
the good man when he awoke on the following morn- 
ing, so thoroughly had tlie thoughts which English’s 
remark suggested taken possession of his soul. 

After completing his toilet, the man of God stepped 


270 Out from under Ccesar^s Frown. 

out into the piazza, where he found his host seated, 
or rather reclining, in the swaying hammock that was 
suspended from the ceiling. 

“You farm, I see, Mr. Addington, on redeemed 
land,” said the minister, after passing the usual morn- 
ing greetings. 

“Yes indeed,” replied Mr. Addington with a smile 
of satisfaction wreathing his features; “my father re- 
trieved this entire plantation from the inundation of 
the river. He was the laughing stock of the entire 
community when he began the work of reclamation; 
for not only was the land considered worthless, but 
the work of damming it was generally considered to 
be a chimerical project; but he succeed, and now my 
farm is considered one of the most valuable planta- 
tions on the Pedee.” 

“ The work of redemption, sir,” declared the clergy- 
man, “ever rewards not only the participant in that 
noble achievement, but the results of his labors ef- 
fect, in some degree, humanity at large.” 

“That is very true,” enthusiastically affirmed the 
farmer. “I have frequently thought that there is 
enough rich alluvial soil yet unredeemed from the 
freshets of this river to feed, were it properly culti- 
vated, every inhabitant of our now prostrate State. 
Our resources, sir, are really beyond computation.” 

“ When will the world learn, Mr. Addington, that 
Omniscience has called men to works of reclamation, 
and not destruction?” asked the thoughtful minister. 

“Judging from what we have just passed through, 
I am afraid that the rudiments of that great lesson 
are yet very imperfectly understood,” answered the 
cultured farmer. 


271 


Siv (imped, Yet Afloat. 

“O tliat cruel war!” said William Dorsey with a 
sigh. “I have just seen it stated that Christian na- 
tions have spent for war during the x^r^^seut century 
over fifteen billions of dollars, while only three hun- 
dred millions have been contributed to the cause of 
the world’s ]’edemption from the darkness of heathen 
ignorance and superstition. One dollar for the sword 
of the Spirit to fifty dollars for the gods of war! 
Yes, you are corre^d when you affirm that we have 
not learned even th6 rudiments of that lesson, and — ” 

“AYhy I see it stated, Mr. Dorsey,” said Adding- 
ton, interrupting the clergyman, “ that one ship re- 
cently sailed from an American port destined for the 
dark continent, and her cargo, sir, makes a good ob- 
ject lesson for our people to study — one missionary 
and one hundred thousand gallons of rum!” 

“ Indeed, it does afford a very fearful lesson for our 
study; and what I was just about to observe when 
you interrupted me gives us a still more fearful ob- 
ject lesson,” asserted the preacher, “for statistics 
demonstrate that this so-called Christian nation ex- 
I^ends annually for her universities and colleges about 
five millions and one hundred and twenty-four thou- 
sand dollars, while kid gloves alone cost the people 
twenty-five millions, and it is stated by good au- 
thority that adorned beauty lays five millions annual- 
ly on . the counters of the temples of fashion for 
ostrich feathers! Alas! it takes, in a Christian coun- 
try, over four times as much to cover the hand than 
it does to clothe the mind with the immortal truths 
of the higher education.” 

“Kid gloves and ostrich feathers then cost the peo- 
ple of the United States just about six times as much 


272 


Out from under Cwsar's Frown. 

as the expenditures annually for Foreign and Domes- 
tic Missions, as that sum does not exceed five millions 
of dollars,” said Addington. 

“Just so,” said the preacher, as he drew a small 
blank book from his pocket, “ and I want to read you 
some statistics I have recently culled from reliable 
sources. Our country expends every year for liquor 
nine hundred millions of dollars; while the aggregate 
expenditures for charities, universities, colleges. Mis- 
sions, and salaries of preachers amounts to two hun- 
dred and four millions, or it takes four times as much 
to satisfy one phase of the depraved appetite as it 
does to meet the present demands of the grand work 
of redemption.” 

“ It is appalling to think of these statistics, Mr. 
Dorsey,” said Addington. “I wonder if tobacco does 
not cost the world more than Christianity?” 

“ Christianity, my dear sir, does not really cost the 
world any thing: every cent invested in the kingdom 
of God is more than a clear gain; for, leaving out the 
moral results, the actual saving in money amounts to 
over three times the sum expended; but I understand 
what you mean by the question,” said the clergyman, 
as he turned the leaves of the blank book, “and I 
have here some figures that solve the query you have 
expressed. The tobacco used by the people of this 
nation cost them six hundred millions of dollars every 
year, or just three hundred and ninety-six millions of 
dollars more than the Church, with all of her benevo- 
lent institutions. And besides I have here one other 
item: one hundred millions annually thrown away 
on mere frivolities.” 

“This is enough to discourage the Church,” said 


273 


S icamped, Yet A float. 

Mr. Addington, just as Edward English joined them, 
having completed his round of morning duties about 
the barn-yard. 

“ O no, we will not be discouraged,” the minister 
said. “Mr. English gave me much hope and com- 
fort on last evening when I met him and inquired 
after his health. ‘Swamped, yet afloat,’ was his 
reply.” 

The men laughed at the expense of English’s mis- 
fortune on the evening before, and then walked in to 
breakfast. 

“We were speaking, Mr. English,” said the clergy- 
man, as they sat down to breakfast, “ of the useless 
expenditures for habit, fashion, and sin, and we find 
that the sum total of this waste amounts to one billion 
and six hundred millions of dollars. Can you tell us 
how to stop this wonderful outlay? For you observe 
that we have,” reading to him the statistics already 
referred to, “just one dollar for our Redeemer and 
his kingdom to eight dollars for self and Satan. 
Now, sir, if you will solve the problem which I have 
advanced, we will crown you victor over contending 
millions,” pleasantly asserted the man of God, 

“I have but little hope, Mr. Dorsey, of winning the 
crown you so kindly offer, but I am free to say that I 
can give you a theory by which the work can be ac- 
complished,” said English; “and then if you accom- 
plish the task by my theory, we will ascribe all the 
honor to you.” 

“Let’s have your scheme,” said the minister and 
Addington simultaneously. 

“ It is short and simple. Crucify Conservatism in 
the Church, burn Humanitarianism at the stake, and 
18 


274 


Otd from under Ccesar^s Froicn. 

publicly beliead Individualism, and your problem is 
solved,” English affirmed with much emphasis. 

“You have given us the key to the problem, Mr. 
English,” the minister said, “and I am of your opin- 
ion: we shall have to throttle the three monsters of 
which you speak before the world is brought to 
Christ.” 

“ Have you any hope, Mr. Dorsey, that Mr. English’s 
inquisitorial measures will ever prevail? ” asked Mr. 
Addington, smiling at the very thought of the stu- 
pendous work proposed by his overseer. 

“ I have,” said the clergyman, “ and, pardon me, I 
must chide your incredulity. Have you not told me 
that your father’s neighbors laughed when he began 
to redeem your valuable plantation from the muddy 
waters of yonder river ? Yes, there is hope. ‘ Through 
this Bed Sea of sin, sorrow, and darkness, in the full- 
ness of faith and hope I see the coming kingdom.’ 
There will yet dawn upon the world an era of peace 
and holiness. ‘ The earth shall be full of the knowl- 
edge of the Lord as the waters cover the sea.’ ‘Be- 
hold, a King shall reign in righteousness.’ ” 

“ Your faith is well founded, Mr. Dorsey,” Adding- 
ton replied ; “ for the prophets give ample assurances 
of what you maintain; but I declare that this preva- 
lence of evil, together with the slow progress of the 
Church, is any thing else but encouraging.” 

“Ah! my dear sir! ” exclaimed the minister, “these 
things are but prophecy fulfilled. ‘ God lifted the cur- 
tain to that grand old prophet Daniel, and let him see 
the great beastly empires of earth, with all their de- 
stroying powers, wearing out the saints of the Most 
High.’ But, thanks be to God! he let him see not 


275 


Swamped^ Yet Afloat. 

only wliat we now see, bnt lie revealed to him things 
farther on — even until ‘ the kingdom of evil shall be 
overcome and the kingdoms and dominion and the 
greatness of the kingdom under the whole heaven 
shall be given to the people of the Most High.’” 

“You have silenced my battery with the potent 
weapon, ‘It is written,”’ said Mr. Addington; “and 
I assure you that my faith has been strengthened by 
the trend which our conversation has assumed.” 

Breakfast was finished, and the trio returned to the 
piazza; where, by mere accident, Edward English was 
startled almost by some unexpected revelations which 
would draw out this chapter to an undesirable length ; 
but we may affirm, before proceeding to record what 
there took place, that the kingdom will come, though 
the Church of to-day may be spotted with the sin of 
covetousness and swamped amid the malaria of sin 
and fashion. ^ 

“ Given ten million consecrated Christians,” says a 
recent writer — such men and women as he who designs 
to push away the brush- wood to let in the sunlight 
of heaven upon a sickly grass blade — “ and the whole 
world could be easily evangelized in twenty years. 
Think of it! All the millions of the unevangelized 
might hear the gospel in twelve months, if there were 
only preachers to declare it.” O may the Church of 
God right up herself! and may “ the old ship of Zion” 
unfurl her sails to the breezes of heaven! and may the 
innumerable throngs of earth be gathered through 
her instrumentality into the kingdom of our Lord! 
Then 

O’er the gloomy hills of darkness, 

Look, my soul, be still, and gaze; 


276 Out from under Caesar's Frown. 

All the promises do travail 
With a glorious day of grace: 

Blessed jubilee, 

Let thy glorious morning dawn! 

Kingdoms wide that sit in darkness, 

Grant them, Lord, the glorious light* 

And from eastern coast to western, 

, May the morning chase the night ; 

And redemption, 

• Freely purchased, win the day. 

Fly abroad, thou mighty gospel; 

Win and conquer, never cease; 

May thy lasting, wide dominions. 

Multiply, and still increase : 

Sway thy scepter. 

Saviour, all* the world around, 

till no towering Caesar’s form shall overshadow the 
dismal places of this sin-burdened world. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 
Lost Tbeasures Restored. 


HEN the trio reached the piazza, Edward En- 



iV glish, having been a few steps in advance of the 
other two men, picked up a small parcel that had ev- 
idently fallen from the minister’s pocket as he drew 
out his blank book, when he referred to the statistics 
already noticed. 

“ Here is a little package that must have dropped 
from your memorandum-book,” said English, as he 
delivered the little carefully wrapped parcel into the 
hand of the clergyman. 

“ Thank you,” replied Mr. Dorsey; “ it is a package 
for which I would be delighted to find the rightful 
owner. It has a somewhat interesting history.” 

“ Will you favor us by relating it? ” asked Mr. Ad- 
dington. 

“ With pleasure,” Mr. Dorsey replied, ‘‘ if you have 
the patience to listen to a long story. In the earlier 
part of the war I was made the bearer, chaplain as I 
was, of some papers from Gen. R. E. Lee’s head-quar- 
ters to that brave cavalry officer, Gen. J. E. B. Stuart. 
I delivered the papers, and was returning to my post 
in Lee’s army. When I reached a dark, lonesome for- 
est, a most terrific storm swept down upon me; and, 
in looking about for some place of shelter, I discov- 
ered a little path that led off through the dense un- 
dejgrowth, evidently to some secluded habitation. I 
reined my horse into the pathway, and soon came to 


( 277 ) 


278 Out from under Ccesar^s Frown. 

a little farm-house, where I was sheltered for the 
night. The members of the family were staunch 
Methodists, and, having learned that their guest was 
a minister of that denomination, were more commu- 
nicative than they would have been had it been other- 
wise. 

“They were neutral, so far as the great issues^that 
divided our common country at that time were con- 
cerned. Hence they had taken care of a wounded 
Union soldier, whose name they seemed never to have 
learned; but the man who rewarded them for their 
service, and who also conveyed the almost lifeless 
body to their house, was named Ned Arnold. 

“ The wounded soldier recovered; and when he took 
leave of this kind family, he assured them that he had 
determined to quit the army, and take up his resi- 
dence somewhere in the South. 

“ But he left — having forgotten it, I presume — this 
little package. It contains a ring, a little golden 
locket, inclosing a photograph of an elderly "woman, 
and also a large photograph of a little girl apparent- 
ly about five years of age. 

“ The package was placed in my hands, with in- 
structions to deliver it to the owner, should I ever 
succeed in finding his whereabouts. 

“ The most interesting incident connected with the 
package, however, is this: I was forced upon one oc- 
casion, on a warmly contested field of battle, to beat 
a hasty and disorderly retreat; and in the fiight I lost 
this little parcel. I gave up all hope of ever seeing 
it again; but, strange to say, just eight months ago, 
in returning on horseback from the army, I spent a 
night with a bachelor whose name was Ivey, and who 


Lost Treasures Restored, 


279 


lived ill The Dismal near Caesar’s Head Mountain. 
Ivey had been a Confederate soldier, and in talking 
over old battle scenes I alluded to the incident which 
I have related, and my host produced the pack- 
age, having picked it up on the battle-field the day 
after the fight. He was anxious to get rid of the lit- 
tle parcel, affirming, as he placed it in my hand, that 
‘ The pictur’ in the locket thess looks like she’s cryin’ 
every time I open it.’ ” 

Edward English, with tears in his eyes, took the 
minister’s hand, and said: “These are a mother’s 
gifts to a wayward son — her photograph and that, of 
an only sister, long since in the grave.” 

The minister, by- an association of ideas, referred 
to the fact of having met Tom Grant. English stood 
transfixed to the floor. It was the first item of news 
that he had received from the Grants since he had 
parted with the family on that eventful night some 
months prior to the occasion of which we are writing. 
Could it be possible that the dearest idol of his heart, 
at that moment lived a dozen miles from where they 
stood. It was even so, and the faithful man of God 
had let into English’s heart, through the little bit of 
information, a larger volume of sunlight, perhaps, 
than had ever been sent thrilling through any other 
heart through his instrumentality. Ah! who indeed 
can measure the resultant forces of a disposition that 
seeks kindly to let in the light?. E. W. Faber beau- 
tifully remarks: “Every solitary kind action that is 
done, the world over, is working briskly in its own 
sphere to restore the balance between right and 
wrong. Kindness has converted more sinners than 
either zeal, eloquence, or learning; and these three 


280 


Out from under Ccesar's Froicn, 

never converted any one, unless they were kind also. 
The continual sense which a kind heart has of its own 
need of kindness keeps it humble. Perhaps an act 
of kindness never dies, but extends the invisible un- 
dulation of its influence over the breath of centuries.” 

Many dark moments had clouded Edward English’s 
soul since he had bid adieu to Jerusha Grant. The 
slender form of her beautiful person, slightly leaning 
on her father’s old rifle, had been stereotyped on his 
soul, and the volume of musketry that greeted his 
presence on the overhanging crag had not yet ceased to 
ring in his ear; but now out of all of these discordant 
and harsli memories, together with a long train of ca- 
lamities, stretching over a century, a life of joy and 
peace was about to spring forth. God will “ restore 
the balance between right and wrong.” 

God liveth ever! 

Wherefore, soul, despair thou never. 

Our God is good, in every place 
His love is known, his help is found ; 

His mighty arm and tender grace 

Bring good from ill that hem us round. 

Easier than we think can he 

Turn to joy our agony. 

Soul, remember ’mid thy pains 

God o’er all forever reigns! 

And the believer only can .decipher the hiero- 
glyphics and short-hand of God’s providence. But 
out of all the multiplied disruptions and bitter mem- 
ories of the past there shall spring those forces 
which shall result in a closer union of humanity and: 
the betterment of the human race. 

Thefe was a humble wedding on Col. Osborne’s 
plantation. The daughter of Southern conservatism 


Lost Treasures Restored, 


281 


and the son of Northern individualism meet upon 
Carolina’s fair plains, and hands guided by loving 
hearts clasp across the bloody chasm of civil strife. 
The “Sun of righteousness” breaks off the fetters of 
prejudice, and the conservatism of the one and the 
individualism of the other find by no means untimely 
graves, from which we trust there will be no resurrec- 
tion. 

A prophecy, we believe, of a fraternity that shall 
never die, and even now 

'Tis coming up the steep of time. 

And this old world is growing brighter; • 

We may not see its dawn sublime, 

Yet high hopes make the heart throb lighter. 

We may be sleeping in the ground 
When it awakes the world in wonder; 

But we have felt it gathering round, 

And heard its voice in living thunder- 
’Tis,coming! yes, ’tis coming! 

And those who love to let in sunlight will bring it. 

Edward English secured his property in the 
North, and to-day he owns a valuable plantation on 
the Pedee, and in his home peace and prosperity 
reign. The last bitter frown of warlike old Caesar 
has vanished, and Jerusha presides in a home as far 
superior to the cabin in The Dismal as a king’s pal- 
ace is to a hovel. The Spirit of God and of his 
Christ fills the hearts of the happy couple. Old 
Harmony’s songs are yet sung by the woman re- 
deemed from Caesar’s dominion. Edward English, 
no longer bound by the fetters of individualism, de- 
lights to practice the graces of Christianity, for a 
mind made generous by the Spirit of God never en- 


282 


Out from under Ccesar^s Frown. 

joys its possessions so much as when others are made 
partakers of tliem. 

Tom Grant, the hero of a sequel to tliis story, had 
many a struggle in climbing the heights which he 
reached, but enough for the present. 

Then may the writer venture to ask the reader of 
these pages, has the cry of the soul of this imperfect- 
ly written book reached your ear and heart? If so, 
treat it not as the great men of England regarded 
Carey’s petition, for the brightest jewels are dug from 
the darkest mines. May the “Shoe-maker Mission- 
ary’s” spirit fill the Church! and may the time soon 
come when Caesar’s frown shall be driven from every 
land, for as an English poet has sung: 

The greatest things in quiet places grow ; 

And men are like the trees, which need the light 
And free, fresh air to make them strong for life. 

The noblest deeds in^ silence are thought out; 

And plans are born while only stars look on, 

And hopes are whispered to the birds and flowers 
AVhich keep the secret. So the grand oaks grow ' 
That once were acorns ; so the grand deeds, too, 

That once were onl}’^ dreams. 

A little village in Northamptonshire 
Became the home, a hundred years ago, 

.Of a young man, poor and unlearned at first. 

Whose thoughts were clarion-calls he needs must hear 
And dared not disobe5\ He read the news 
How India, with its costly merchandise. 

It wondrous wealth, and vast extent of land, 

Did now belong to England. And he read 
How Agni, Soma, and a host of gods 
Were worshiped by the Indians, and his heart 
Was filled with longing to go forth and tell 
The good news of the love of Jesus Christ 


Lost Treasures Restored, 

And the glad heaven which he has made the home 
For all the peoples of the Father’s world. 

Great heed had he of patience. No one cared 
To listen to the visionary talk 
Of him they deemed fanatic. So he took 
The little village church they offered him, 

And when the stipend, ten and fifteen pounds, 
Proved all to meager, made the village shoes, 

And mended them ; and taught the village boys. 
Making a globe of leather for his school. 

And giving lessons in geography — 

Chiefly of India. But the Moulton fields. 

Were his prayer-place, and silent trees 

Looked down the while he made his high resolves. 

And the calm stars smiled with approving light, 

And now and then the wakeful nightingale 
Might hear another plaintive lay than hers 
Break through the stillness, and “ 0 Lord, how long? 
Come from the lips of Carey. 

Much he tried 

To get the ear of others. At all meeting-times, 
AVhen ministers together came for talk, 

He was among them, and in earnest words 
Pleaded the duty of the modern Church 
To care for India. “ God has given the land 
To us,” he cried, “ and we must win it back 
To Christ. 0 brothers, why still hesitate? 

Let us go forward, and attempt great things 
For God, and then expect great things from God, 
AVho will not disappoint us.” Angrily 
An older man cried out: “Sit down, young man.” 
Yet was not Carey silenced. 

Many days 

Passed on before he had his heart’s desire; 

And then, behold, in far-oflf Serampore 

The man of Moulton! Honored, learned, praised, 

Professor in the college, translator 

■) 

/ 


284 


Oat from under Ccesar^s Frown. 

Of the most Holy Book he loved so well, 

Leader of modern Missions, whose good name 
Was spoken in our English Parliaments 
And in the homes of India; so he lived, " 

And, like a tree whose leaves for healing grew, 
In stately strength and beauty reared his head, 
Because his great, true heart was brave for God. 


The End. 




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